For the sake of my Father, certain things must be done in a certain way. Certainly not carefully. He was never as careful as he could be. I make it a point these days to be so. But I can only be careful for so long.
In intermittent droves, my canceled plans go drifting, and I am wont with pasts benign; pasts that shuffle through my mind like winged beasts. There is memory that seeks to sink me – there is regret, yet also tried insight. Indeed, there is only a busted door at times; at times but an open window. For the sake of my Father, in a certain way, I am hoped for casual depictions of care. Any care in the world.
For the sake of my Mother, certain things must never be done. We must never lie, sisters. Mother hated that the most. Better to come clean with any wretched deed than to try and hide it. I never did. It got me languished to my room sometimes, and a talking-to sometimes as well. But never a slap of the tongue – never the wilt of distrust. My Mother and Father both trusted me. Yet indefinitely still, certain things must be done, or Neve done, in a certain way.
Coddled Winter. Tepid Spring. Too warm Summer. Autumn leaves and returned so. Better each time. With each season, my eyes go crying, no – they go laughing. Laughing and then crying. Laughing until I cry. Or crying until I laugh. Certainly both. Certainly both.