Paddleball

In a relationship like paddleball,

someone has to be the string.

My sister loved her dad, so it

must have been her.

One day the string broke and we

never went back.

We hid at my grade school

with our jackets turned inside out

so he couldn’t recognize us.

It was dark and we ate shredded mini-wheats

out of a bowl that once contained butter.

It was a Sunday.

I remember because my mom asked me to get our

bowl back the next day at school.

I told her I couldn’t find it, but I never looked.

What was I supposed to tell the playground monitor,

“I need to find my mom’s bowl

that we left here last night when we

were running from my sister’s dad.”

I could have, but I was eight

and I already understood.