I remember two-year-old me
bouncing on the ratty queen bed
in my grandfather’s basement
throwing a rock at my mother’s TV.
She had found the rock who knows where,
but she collected odd things like that.
Whatever reminded her of vast open spaces
where Indians ran free.
She came out of the bathroom
in a puff of steam, smelling
of cheap, green, Irish Springs,
and I thought nothing of the horror
dawning on her teenage face.
All my thoughts were on the “chink”
of the rock against that domed glass.
But I knew the moment I heard her alarm.
The precious stone from open spaces
was snatched from me. The TV
still working hard, forever scarred,
forever changed by my presence.
But the glass was sturdy.
I expected punishment;
I knew, though did not understand,
that I was in trouble–those white dents
in the glass
were because of me.
But instead my mother sighed
and put the rock back,
still glittering with quartz,
and returned to the bathroom,
to the moist Irish Spring cloud
to finish getting ready