Three Rings in a Lake

Suddenly, I'm reinventing myself.

Suddenly, I'm peeling and tearing and calling it chiseling, but maybe, at this point, it's just falling apart.

Maybe my hands never grew past the first time I touched the wet wood of the doghouse my dad built, or maybe my knees will never get past the doughy smash of the playset I climbed across when the sun was dry.

Does the silver chain still hang from the tree, do the woodchips hug the ground loosely under the "run from my parents to here" spot I had?

How tilted is the roof that covered that park area, almost set on fire and reported by the cheater boy's parents?

I broke the bottle at the wedding and lied, you lit the candle that led to a night of disjointed laundry.

Your lessons were pale and shrugging.

I feel alone because everything changes, and my sister still got both the clock and the green chair.

I think I was right somewhere in all this time, but never let myself celebrate.