a staircase to creep down,
a railing to gaze from,
a chipped front door to miss the markings of.
An archetype so few of us lived,
but lies quiet in our tiny aches for different beginnings.
In our minds we were that child,
had that lawn,
heard 'I love you', in a 'Good morning' kind of often.
We sit cross legged by the legs of our elders
listen to their sepia hearts,
and do not hesitate to bring
our generation to dinner.
When you dated a boy from Ethiopia,
you changed the settings on your photo albums,
lest you don't get an invite to Christmas dinner.
You live like they hoped you would now,
without even meaning to.
You fantasize about disaligning,
that what if of the left-wing majority,
soapboxing all the normal that has bred
in the past 50 years
holding them down, gently,
and making them
listen.
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