10 Years Old

And, you’re 10 years old…

Your parents are moving you from the only house you’ve known

from your friends and school and teammates and all

that is comfortable, and familiar

and, no one listens that your young heart is cracking -

“…it’s a job thing, an adventure that has us moving to a different state,

we know you’ll love the new place and make new friends…”

No one heeds your tears on the subject, there is no discussion,

no alternative for a kid.

And, you’re 10 years old…

You’ve got to lend a hand cleaning up and emptying

this house you don’t want to leave. Empty the room

you grew up in and don’t want to exit,

make choices that you don’t want to make about

the things you love - what to bring

and what to abandon and never see again,

the leave-behind stuff.

And, you’re 10 years old…

Tears run down your face as you regard your menagerie —

stuffed animals from every museum store and Christmas

Every birthday gift since you were born.

Friends that have pillowed you and comforted you and

played guard with benign glass eyes since your first hours.

At your feet is a giant garbage bag.

And you’re 10 years old…

And you are living the reverse Pokemon life:

you can’t keep them all.

You’re a big boy now, and Mom and Dad said it will be hard.

It’s so tough, but you are a stand-up guy, and hold each creature

in your hands as you decide, face to face.

The tears don’t stop you from tightly cuddling the leave-behinds

the water like a benediction on their colorful skins and fur.

You’ve been told to take responsibility

and so you carefully arrange each goodbye friend at the bottom of the

black bag.

You pray they’ll go to good homes - that other kids will adore them

as you did, and like in Toy Story, they’ll be happy and safe without you.

And you’re 10 years old…

The cleaning is mostly done and you’ve been such a help

Dad is letting you come to the transfer station:

there is a lot of garbage from decades of living in a house.

There will be ice cream at the end of this chore, and your spirit lifts.

It rained last night and will be storming tonight — the steaming garbage piles

and ponds of slime smell really bad beneath the legion of circling gulls.

Dad backs into the parking spot, a cliff to make bag-tossing easier.

And you’re 10 years old…

Old enough that the constant movement of the trucks and tractors,

the frontloaders and excavators with their dinosaur-scoops,

pivoting and churning through the garbage piles, is fascinating.

After a minute, Dad opens the rear of the SUV, and grabs the first bag.

He rears back and throws it, a black-wrapped missle of junk that rotates

through the air until it splats into a puddle — then, a truck runs it into a pile.

“Your turn, kid,” he says with a grin.

And soon you heft and throw a small bag

just like he did, to tumble into the garbage action below.

And you’re 10 years old…

And it’s almost a race now — grab and heave, grab and heave, and you’re both laughing.

You and Dad, like a game under the gray sky and the raucous squawks;

that ice cream is very, very close, and you don’t notice the smell any more.

And Dad grasps a bag, and whips it aloft

and, the untied bag opens in flight

and, your goodbye friends —

so intently prepared for their new lives —

spin out into the air

to plop and splat into the garbage ground, into the puddles and slime

to look up at you with wide eyes

as a lumbering machine thunders through and grinds them under its dirty catepillar tracks

And you’re 10 years old…

but you can’t choke a scream out and so it’s a creaking noise

that comes from your screaming face

and you can’t move, and so your young eyes track

the mangled, flattened bits of color scattered through the filth.

Until your Dad turns you gently around and crushes you in his arms.

“I’m so sorry, son, I’m so so sorry. I grabbed the wrong bag. Oh, son…”

And the tears come, and the screams into his warm and sweaty belly

with that feeling that you’ll shake apart.

Ice cream doesn’t matter, you’d throw it up anyway.

Who wants to be a big boy if it means something like this?

And you’re 10 years old…

It’s night, and you’re in bed, and a thunder storm has broken

right over the house. Every few minutes it booms like the Fourth of July

but in a really scary way.

You are alone on the sheets: a taped moving box downstairs

is holding your remaining friends hostage for the move.

And, your goodbye friends…. are gone.

This is the first storm you’ve ever faced alone, and you swallow tensely.

<BOOM>

You jump to the floor to run to Mom and Dad

but, what’s that sticking out from under the bed near the bureau?

Wait - is that Husky Dog? You dive to the floor.

It is a glorious furry white puppy with big blue eyes

which don’t blink or wince as you hug him with all your strength.

“I missed you, I miss you…” the tears come again, but not just for this pup.

He’s a good dog, he just lets you cry.

And you’re 10 years old.