Abigail M. Woods

A laundry mat on wheels
One side clean, the other side dirty
An hour to school and an hour
Back to mom’s. Forty-five minutes
To my bed and fifteen to dad’s.
I no longer live my life this way.
The learning curve has taken awhile,
But I do not need to hoard sweatshirts
In my floorboard. I take my wallet in
When I get home. I don’t leave
My life in the car.
I no longer live that way.

I called it home for most of my life.
A white brick building turned cream
From years of red-dirt dust. Velvety
Red carpets, a nursery, a hallway with
A kitchen, three rooms for study, and
A children’s place at the back.
I had, at one point, begged for
My own, but when I finally moved
Out, I left it there, in the bedroom
Of a girl that once spent her Sunday’s
At service and her Wednesday’s at group.
I don’t want my bible anymore.

I was always a water baby. Maddie
Tells me this is because I am a
Gemini but let’s be honest, I just love
The feeling of the creek rushing over
Me. I love the campgrounds, the
Fire roasted jalapeno hot dogs, and
The overwhelming smell of sunscreen.
We went on our own trip a few years
Back. I realized it wasn’t the
Place that I loved so much,
But the people. And the people
Aren’t the same anymore. Some got
Divorces, and some got sober, some
Had some kids and others left because
They didn’t. I was too young to
Realize then that the creek was more
Than a creek.


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Bridge the Distance: An Oral History of COVID-19 in Poems Copyright © 2021 by Abigail M. Woods is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.

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