Seven

You tried your best. That’s what we say. You were young; we say that too. I hug your leg, a place that feels safe. You push me away. I try to hold on, jeans rough against my skin. I get good grades; I play my part. I listen more than I speak. I anticipate and wait. I am what I think you want.

I like cats and love to draw. Unmatched socks on my toes. Toast again because no one’s home. Butter and honey on my fingers. I eat and eat, and it leaves me full. Like many others, I play pretend. The grocery store, ironing, and mail delivered. I walk the steps and play outside. Jump rope and a push scooter.

You never hit, except when you did. Mostly you just looked away. Another room, a separate space, plaster in between us. Lights dim and I dream of the ocean. You tell me what I won’t become. I look at yellowed linoleum beneath my feet and believe you.

We try our best; that’s what we say. I hold her hand as we cross the street. I cut her food. I wrap her tightly in my arms. I tell her I love her. We imagine space and undersea. We paint with watercolors on cardboard cups. We spin and dance on warm oak floors. We cook when evening comes.

An awkward hug, she pulls away. I don’t let go, the fleece of her jacket beneath my fingers. Bark dust beneath my sandals. A sliver in my sole. I try to be what I think she wants.