Seven

I didn’t want to stand there

in my tux and bowtie

with Dad and Sue

under the big oak tree.

 

I didn’t want to see Mom

in the very last row

of blue folding chairs.

Her cheeks wet.

Her eyes red.

 

I wanted to run –

back down the aisle

past all the smiling faces.

 

Climb the wooden fence

and just keep going.

 

Instead I stared up

at the little white lights

around the wide oak branches

and counted how many were burnt out.

 

 

 

Samantha Serles lives and writes in Toronto, Ontario, Canada.