I wake to the warm, familiar hush
of my mother’s voice,
soft as the silk of her sleeve
as she leans in
“I’m off to work, it’s time for you to get ready for school.”
Hazy-eyed, hair tangled like wildflowers,
I slip into the dress laid out for me the night before
something floral, something soft.
I find him waiting—my father—
he kneels without a word.
His hands cold from packing ice into my lunchbox.
Fingers fumble with the zipper,
and then, his voice
“You look so beautiful, Lucy.”
I grin, proud and toothless,
the gap in my smile wide as morning.
We step outside together,
morning air cool against our skin.
My light pink ballerina flats darken
with each step through the wet grass.
My dad walks beside me,
my backpack slung over his shoulder,
as if it were weightless.
He opens the door for me,
tunes the radio
classic rock again,
the soundtrack of my childhood unfolding.
We roll forward in the carpool line.
I unbuckle, kiss his right cheek
his stubble brushes my lips,
a thousand tiny needles
that never stops feeling like home.
My brother walks beside me,
handing off my bag at the classroom door.
Inside, I’m pulled into the scent
of my teacher’s perfume,
my face pressing into her chunky turquoise necklace.
She compliments the dress
and I grin like this is something sacred.
The day unfolds in loops and letters,
cursive curls and crayons,
ending in art class—chaos in color.
I spill paint on the dress,
blue blooming across pink,
a stain shaped like shame.
I cry.
Not for the mess,
but for the thought of upsetting him.
After school, I walk to the car,
my brother beside me like a guardrail.
He listens,
tells me it’ll be okay
with the certainty only older siblings hold.
I climb in the backseat,
heart knotted like shoelaces,
but he turns,
smiles at me through the rearview.
His eyes find the paint, then find mine.
“What did you make in art class today, sweetheart?”
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