The birthday candles you never blew out. You had to give away the kitten your father gave you when you left. Not much remains where it should. Things are scattered. Not by the wind, but like the nails and tacks on the floor of the basement with the big table and daddy’s instruments and the boxing bag. There isn’t much, but there is a little, more then what you saw in the bathroom. Daddy brushing his teeth, or shaving, and you, two inches tall next to his mile long legs. You swore his hair grazed the clouds. Maybe he cried, or maybe he didn’t. Hope he did. To catch the tears in the bowl of your baby palms and drink the lies and cheats that would come to stain your tissues and paint you all the colors little kids should never be. Weird, they taunted on the playground, kingdom of skinned knees and snail race champions, barbie band-aids slicked onto your elbow when they pushed you and you cried. Never wanted to remember. Kisses to foreheads, vague notion of the words you forgot to write and the sitcoms you never found funny, when the key didn’t fit to the lock and your mouth was cold and wet. But you spoke too soon. There are always blank pages left.