Playing Hooky in High School

for three years I’d leave my parents house in the mornings (never a home lets not call it that), headed for high school

change out of my grey and burgundy uniform in the park

then take the wrong bus, headed in the wrong direction from school, to downtown Montreal

where I'd spend hours:

reading magazines at Chapters bookstore

watching movies at the Palace Theatre for $2.50

people watching up and down Ste. Catherine

ducking into an arcade and playing with whatever money I had (or scraping the coin return slot for quarters left behind)

dreaming, just dreaming fervently of a different life

where I had friends

where I had someone who loved me, and was willing to hold my hand (I could feel all of this, though I could never make out faces)

where I didn't have to try so hard all of the time to escape the negative pull of my family,

the pull that said all of this was wrong

YOU are wrong

and all of the neglect and damage and bad decisions and darkness are all still in you, and will sabotage it all in the end

so eat your Belle Province burgers and fries

then take the wrong bus back home

(now the sun is falling, and the mounting awareness of a day wasted brings guilt to the mix, your father will be home soon and what would he say if he knew I wonder)

slip back into your uniform at the park, last stop before

Terminus

A sick mom spiraling out with schizophrenia, talking to herself, sometimes holding back tears or giggling over a joke I will never be privy to. A dad who will never, ever admit to what its done to us. And a younger brother and I somehow trying to hold onto- what?- in the midst. Whatever we could. Ourselves.

"How was your day?"

"It was fine." Pause. "Normal."