Emma Engling
The Hardship of the Eight-Year-Old
She takes a swig of mouthwash, imagining it whiskey
It swirls within her mouth as she reflects on the hardships of second grade
The early morning wake-up at nine certainly takes a toll on her aging body
Especially when she stayed up till ten to read under the covers
Her baby brother is a terrible roommate, with no concept of rent
He sobs for hours as if he has anything to worry about
Miss Julie will be on her case for not getting that spelling test done
But they played kickball yesterday and her team needed her
Recess isn’t what it used to be, no time to swing or even slide
She counts down the days till summer break—fourteen to go
Maybe if the school would turn down the heat or open a window
As if those cheapskates would let one penny go
That was her lemonade money they were wasting
And with three new stands down the block, business would be tough
She enters the kitchen to find her mother at the sink
Eggs please—she says—with a side of the good stuff, two percent
How’s it going Kid—asks her mother
A typical question to keep the customers happy
She complains about Ashley who spends too much time with Adam
And Amy who has taken all the blue crayons again
That’s tough Kid—says her mother
No ounce of irony on her lips
She nods and wipes the mustache of milk from her mouth
She checks the clock on the wall which she cannot read
Well—she heaves a heavy sigh—time to go
Her mother smiles and collects the baby from the highchair
She acknowledges her mother and the way she holds herself in that moment
The tiny bit of weariness as she places the entire world on her hips
The eight-year-old watches that singular wonderful woman
And places that image in her mind, ready to be used for another day
Nearly the Same
People ask me if my family is close
and I say no, but we are loud
which is nearly the same thing
We yell up the stairs
dinner is ready
We yell through the door
hurry up in the bathroom
There are no vocal cords
we have not stretched
Or sound barriers
we have not broken
We do not slip notes into lunchboxes
We do not call home for just no reason
We do not whisper the words we need to hear
I like to look at the other families
in restaurants or at school events
who cheer from the front row
We are behind the bleachers
in the dark corner where
the waiter does not go
heckling at the mascots
On nights when I returned home
I would wait for the witching hour
and listen for the murmurs and snores
and the sound of breathing in their beds
I would open my window
I would climb out onto the roof
and listen to the moon glow
and the pine trees lean
I would watch the bat flap past
I would feel my own skin shrink
and my hair raise against the cold
I would sit outside in the dead
of night as my family slept
below me and I would miss
their noise