throughout the house
Sugar sits in different shapes
on every table
Video games and movies come
and go through the little family room
The kitchen is filled
with promises of baking; “tomorrow!”s
stacked on every shelf
My dad’s booming voice rings
inside my head as I come down
to breakfast, if I’ve woken up early enough,
and grandma still can’t hear him.
I chase her,
and my mother, away
from sweets meant for under the Christmas tree
And St. Mother feeds us all, despite
being the one
who likes cooking the least.
“We’ll cook!” we say, but
it’s just time to play:
“How much should we get wrong before we ask her for help?”
and she cooks anyway.
There are fights, that is certain,
between whom is the variable. If
your money’s on mom and dad,
it’s not much of a gamble.
But there are fewer, I think,
and since I’m the sole one still growing,
I can’t help but wonder
if I’ve learned something