grey.

dear mother,

there is no snow

on the streets of PA.

i wish i could laugh like i did

when people said

my hair was blacker

than calligraphy ink

when the sun still breathed 

on my good little head,

and take a walk,

and say to you, look,

my feet have grown,

my shoes don't fit.

"good morning,"

grandfather said

as he gave me

that oily doughnut, 

deliciously greasy

with pockets of air

(i didn't like it,

but i took three bites)

"good night,"

grandmother said

as she gave me

two big ripe dates,

maroon and sandy

with plastic skins

(i didn't like it,

i just ate one)

at lunch we held

our sticks so nimbly,

ready to fight

over his pork stew

with fatty bits,

and potato chunks,

in saucy salt.

then i would not

eat anything but

the fish's lungs,

retrieving the air

he once needed,

and chewing on

its expired stink.

smelling of childhood

sweets, childhood dreams

and unabashed screams,

they have died

with grandfather.

they are dying

with grandmother.

dear mother,

there is rain now,

but the sky here

can be blue too.

when i have

one too many 

birthdays more,

promise me

you will not 

breathe in 

the grey,

and turn it cold

when you do.