The Day We Left

It was after the “broken plate” day,
Sunglasses inside.
I stopped asking questions.

It was my job to vacuum the living room.
I sucked up pieces of the Yellow Pages and pulled my cheeks with its suction.

All my stuffed animals were packed in a big black plastic bag.
I jumped on it to push the air out.

I stopped asking questions.
But my younger brother hadn’t figured it out yet.

It was simple:
We were leaving, at last.
Who cares if it was your dad?
I had no use for one.

But his teary questions made her break down again.
I didn’t look when the glasses came off…

All my crayons were placed in a big glass jar.
The shaking truck made them write all over the inside,
As if they were trying to escape.
Trying to find a new home.