Creation (Part I)
Janine Canan
Twelve years old, I lie awake in my bed. How far does the sky go--the dark, the stars arcing over my head? Something moves forward I can't take back to Mother or Father. And what I carry on will not return to me. Stars appear through the ceiling. Shadows move restlessly. The avocado's large hands reach through the window. The house echoes inside me. Mother roams darkly from floor to floor. Father passes through, opening windows. He wants to throw out the old things unused. I fear for my doll, the quilt that Grandmother made, the hand-rolled pillow embroidered with blue. I tell him No. I leave home.
