By Ann Lewis
The phone off the hook emitted a constant busy signal
to any who hoped to help. New friends were turned away at the door,
only the window opened to say I could not come out.
I would run to my room mortified and hit my face, arms and back as hard as I could.
In those moments, I allowed myself to admit I was a prisoner of war. A war
I fought alone, against logic, without hope.
I would return to the living room, to Mama, surrounded by a thick cloud,
sitting straight in the mauve wingback, jaw tight,
watery blue eyes piercing the invisible enemies floating between us.
Each night that summer, I escaped to the concrete driveway
for hours, waiting for sunset. I had a friend in Amigo,
the brown and white chihuahua mix
that belonged to the five-year-old across the street.
We wrote songs about polka dotted lands, magic wands, and loving hands.
In my flowery journal, I wrote poem after poem,
stretching for silver linings, with him by my side.
The day came I got the news he had been poisoned.
My heart broke in two. I asked to put flowers on his grave.
Copyright 2023 Inside Out: Meet Mama Schizophrenia.
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