You Have Grown.

By Alexandra Dudu

I want to become the type of woman who is hard to get…

I want to reach that level of confidence 

I want to advocate an epitome of hypocrisy 

And scream in the middle street “I love myself”

But then, I remember—

the sick, enticing way you sacked the best parts of me.

I remember the balmy wind rippling through your blonde hair,

the way your hazel eyes gleamed in the daylight.

Like melted amber—golden, soft,

like that stupid "dusk-lit horizon" they romanticize in movies.

You seemed like freshly brewed coffee—you smelled like that too.

I remember you.

Ten years, and I still remember you.

All kids see their parents as heroes

Downing images of gods who will never once be crossed by the imbalances of life

But we grow up.

We realize they are only human, trying their best.

Yet, I pray this wasn’t your best.

Cause why did the rest do better than you could?

So, father, I still remember you.

You picked me up from school,

and I ran into your open arms—

and they were open arms.

You scooped me up,

lilted into my ear, "I love you, Bunny."

And I thought you were fun,

your laughter could have scooped the sun.

So, of course, I remember you.

We drove to the convenience store,

and you let me pick a snack.

I wanted M&Ms—

but only the purple ones.

And you said,

"I'd turn the world upside down to see you smile."

And in some insufficient way,

you did.

You sifted through them, collecting all the purple in your palm.

And I remember—

you kept repeating that you loved me.

But when we got home,

to our small studio apartment.

You asked me to wait for Mom.

Said you were stepping out for cigarettes.

So you left me there alone.

I remember you—

or at least, the faith of a five-year-old memory.

But I will never forget her hapless tears,

the way she had to explain your leave of absence.

She pledged she’d be strong for me,

but my mother—she is human.

Not a saint.

Still, I never forgot you.

But I let you go.

I am not a child anymore.

I know now that I am not merely the sum of shattered walls,

not just the product of what society calls a broken home.

So, I won’t blame you entirely

for love’s cruel war.

Yet I—

the adept of the self-sufficient woman idiom—

I now eat M&Ms in all colors.

Or none at all.