Someday

1,300 boxes
Stepping into each one is a memory.
My bare feet crush tea-coloured carpets,
And the floors creak with secrets.
1,300 boxes
Every one used, filled up, and stained.
In this box, over time;
Two desks, a bed, a chair, a puppy’s favorite hiding place.
My new chair sits where others once slept.
1,300 boxes
I take pictures of them all.
I want to show you, little one, where I lived when I first thought of you.
Where your mother cried and laughed and sang
When she was half a child herself.
1,300 boxes
Some are splattered with blood,
Some always clean and untouched,
And they feel empty today; each one is quiet.
Our breezes are made by open windows and clicking fans.
Our mop is a rag and cramping hands.
Our furniture is old and worn; we hardly have a thing that’s new.
But I hope, someday, that I’ll have you.
And you’ll grow up in a nice white house,
Wide windows, clean carpets, walls that aren’t broken and could hold up a shelf.
I’ll say goodbye to my boxes and start over for you,
Just as my mother once did, until someday in the far distant future,
You will crave something less than the hope you were given.
You may find a boy (or a girl, that’s fine too),
To help you build boxes away from the nest.
But I hope, oh I hope, that you do better than I -
If you must have your boxes, your tears, and your sighs,
Don’t let any old person put their mark down inside;
Those boxes are YOURS, and you should look at them with pride.
You stand in each one to look out at the rest,
And promise me, little one, you’ll give it your best.