It’s been seven long years
since you slammed that screen door
little dust balls kicking up
under your pretty bare feet
my boots pounding hard after you.
How could you walk as fast I was running?
Your long sundress swishing mightily side-to-sidew
with each angry stride
my footsteps slowed
dragging through that dry Texas dirt
and then stopped at the fence.
Why would you not stop and talk to me?
I clipped the keys to the house
on the barbed-wire fence
hollering at your disappearing back
to let you know.
How could you drop everything and leave like this?
I fixed the screen door
the driveway is still paved in inches of Texas dirt
it is kicking up around my feet now
I’m walking down to the mailbox
and the gusting wind jangles those rusty keys.
Mama, what did we do?
Seven long hard years
I unclip those unused keys
the choice is not hers anymore
and throw them deep into the woods
there’s a whisper that stirs up
as I walk back
but I ignore it.
© D.B. Hall
Response to our Inspiration Call on November 15, 2017
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Categories: Featured Writer's