Kindergarten

I was one of those that wept,
my heart clinging
despondently to the past,
wept to see my mother
turn so easily to leave me,
wept at this stranger’s kind effort,
how softly she spoke,
coaxing me into her classroom.
I wept for my younger brother,
now home,
and the bittersweet vision of him,
in his pajama bottoms,
laying alone before the television,
transfixed by Captain Kangaroo.

I wept for the children around me,
placing their hard metal lunchboxes
on the tiny cloakroom shelves,
for the rows of pegs
all exactly the same,
for the monkey bars
that would one day soon
burn blisters on my tender palms,
for the child in the corner,
absently stacking worn blocks,
for the smells of crayons
and floor wax and milk
and small wooden chairs.

I wept for the unnaturalness of it all,
wanting only to be home,
to watch my mother
wipe cereal from the table,
sweep floors, smooth beds,
to listen to her hum
soothingly through my day.

By Maria Brady-Smith