Beth Blackwell

Between the living room and the kitchen

There is a door. 

Signatures of my siblings form a road map, 

Stretching from top to bottom 

Sporadic lines like signposts 

Marking the miles of growth.

Hung off the back is my mother’s blue coat.

Dark navy, 

With ripped sleeves to wipe my tears 

And deep pockets to hold my problems.

It hangs, oversized, just past my knees. 

The wool inside gathers in 

                                                 Irregular 

                                                                    Places.

This home of mine is spacious 

And a curious little girl shares it with me.

I remember her, 

From a lifetime ago 

And her name is scribbled on the door.

She is like me, 

Only her hair is blonde 

And her nails aren’t bitten.

In many ways she is not me, 

Except for the home we share, 

Wrapped away in my mother’s blue coat.