Mischievous

By
Boring, quiet service
My mom was missing that Sunday
The constant “hush” was being whispered into my ear
By the end of the sermon, my beet red Dad had already promised me a spanking
Sitting solemnly at my dining room table
Knowing that my fate was coming soon
I was a mischievous child.

I was told that she was a crazy dog
My Lexi, my prized Dalmatian
Never would I dare go to her pen, without my dad
My bravery was worn in the form of a grin
As I snuck out the back door
I rushed to her pen and opened the cold metal gate
The clicking of her leash attaching to her collar
She jerked me quickly pulling me across the yard
I never let go of the leash
I was pulled across my rough concrete driveway
I never let go of the leash
The blood poured from legs,
I never let go of the leash
My screams heard across the neighborhood
I never let go of the leash
My dad tackling the polka-dotted fur two feet before the road
Lexi was at the humane society the next day
I ran inside to my mom, still holding a red leash
I was a mischievous child.

I was my mommy’s favorite artist
The home was two days old to my family of three
A new picture was needed on the refrigerator door
My black sharpie was my brush, the paper towel my blank canvas
The smell engulfed my nostrils as I proudly drew my new home
I took my mini-Picasso to my mother with pride
The tears formed in her eyes when she asked where I had drawn such a feat.
In the living room, on our new beige carpet
Was a black house, imprinted onto the floor,
I was a mischievous child.




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