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we fill in the blank spaces
of who are parents are
when we don’t have enough
pieces to make up a complete picture.

a childhood of jumbled pieces
we force into a familiar mythology.
worn out memories, dreams and stories
woven together like a string
of christmas lights that refuse
to flash- because one or more bulbs
are burnt out or missing.

it’s remarkable how little we learn
in eighteen years, how parental and vapid
the conversations become.
compulsory wisdom hidden
in everyday chatter:
clean your room.
wash the dishes.
spend more time outside.

what do our children need from us
that we don’t seem to give them?

where are the empty spaces in this myth?
will i have time to explain myself?