Empty Spaces

  One night I got really mad. There was a poem I had written her hanging on the wall in the kitchen. I had written it for mothers day when I was 11. My grandma had helped me find a frame and print the poem on expensive paper. My mom, must have overlooked it the day she came back for her things.

To this day there are still empty spaces on the walls from the pictures that she took. My dad still has their wedding pictures on display in his bedroom. I hate looking at them. I turn them over whenever I’m cleaning his room. He’s never said anything, but they always seem to be put back up.

I don’t remember what we were fighting about. I don’t remember what triggered it, but in a rage I ripped the poem off the wall. I ran outside and threw the frame against the rock siding of the garden. Glass flew everywhere. Pieces of frame scattered about the garden and there was a sharp pain in my foot. When I looked down, the top of my foot was cut up and bleeding. I sat down and tried to cry but couldn’t. One of my brothers (I don’t really remember which one) came out and asked if I had heard a loud crash. I didn’t say anything, and after he saw my face he didn’t say anything either.

I slowly stood up and saw the paper the poem was printed on, laying on one of the steps. I grabbed it and tore it up.

I then went into the kitchen to grab a broom.

Pieces of the frame are still in the garden. There are still empty spaces between the hangings on the walls.

There are still empty spaces.