I used to hope I’d wake up to my grandma’s radio.
Once again, it didn’t play.
6:36 AM: I get up to lull my fallen stuffed animals.
6:51 AM: I button my shirt, still half-caught.

Mom brushes my sister’s hair; she messes up mine.
The neighbor calls out the wrong bus.
The “We’re almost there” — still thirty minutes away — suffers from a game of “telephone”.

My feet dangle from the seat, the handrail, the swing.
“I won’t be so childish when I grow up,” I’d boast.
Now, with both feet on the ground, I think:
“I should’ve hidden my childhood under the rug.”
But how?

I always made sure to sweep my mess away.