Crayon Box

Twenty-three years ago the sky used to be the exact same color as my pants

and every glass of water, and half the Earth

and my dog's collar

My front door was the exact same color as every apple

and a cardinal, and my dad's car

The boxes I used to categorize were only big enough to fit eight crayons

so in first grade, the entire universe could be drawn in eight colors

And my mom was my mom and nothing else

and Cassidy was a bully and nothing else

and writing was homework and nothing else

 At twenty-nine years old, my favorite fruit is no long the same shade as a robin's chest

now my hair is dishwater and the weeds outside are goldenrod

now the sky is paled turquoise

and that collar is buried in my backyard

Now my mom is a saint and a woman and a retiree and a quilter and a gardener and an introvert and a sinner and a friend

and Cassidy is just a product of her environment

doing the best she can

Now, eight doesn't quite cover it