Dear rural white boy

I remember
when I was ten
or eleven

being in my room
not mine really
I shared with two of my brothers

there were three mattresses
on the floor
and two battered dressers
and a closet

it was on the second floor
up the narrow steep stairs

the ceilings were
low on either side
sloped under the roof
covered in ancient wall paper

crooked farm house

anyway,
I remember

crying
wailing

I want to die
I want to die
I want to die

and thudding my head
against the glass

I think my Mom
had told me
we were moving

again

I don’t remember
motivations
were plentiful

the window looked out
over the front yard
there were maple trees

shading the whole front lawn
150 years old
planted when the house was new

I do remember
the glass in that window
there were ripples
in the surface

I didn’t know then
glass is still a liquid
even if it feels solid
slowly, so slowly
it changes

I didn’t hit it
hard enough to break it

I’m 51 now
and the maple tree in our yard
is 7 years old