I’m from one happy, brick house 

with a blooming hydrangea tree out front. 

I’m from one private, painted bedroom,

with a dresser so tall I couldn’t reach the top. 

I’m from one Christmas, one Easter, 

and one family birthday dinner. 

I’m from trips to Disney as one happy family, 

my parents each holding one of my hands,

lifting me up to jump over the crowd. 

Soon the exciting trips to Disney turned to routine trips up north,

which my mom chose to refrain. 

My once content parents began screaming and slamming doors. 

But soon the anger between them turned into sorrow. 

Mom would leave each night and I’d grab her by the ankles, 

begging her to stay. 

Dad would sit out on the front porch long after the kids fall asleep. 

Once I asked him why he sat there crying on his birthday.

“Your mom and I are getting a divorce,” he muttered. 

Soon one house turned into two.

Although one private, painted bedroom remained,

the other was constructed from the cold,

dingy concrete walls of my grandma’s basement.

The only thing dividing me from my sisters 

was a wooden dresser that could barely hold 10 shirts. 

There were now two Christmases and two Easters, 

and I was lucky if I got to see both parents on my birthday. 

Two parents once focused on their kids were now focused on other things –

they had new things to worry about.