Eight Poem by Shirley Anne Cook

Eight


I tell myself it doesn't matter:
that slammed door,
your hasty footsteps on the path,
the missing wave and smile
when I, aged eight,
pressed nose on glass,
hopeful of your return.

I tell myself it doesn't matter
how I waited there until late,
ignoring Father's demands to go
to bed, where each night
I cried myself to sleep.

I tell myself it doesn't matter
that you never sent a letter
or remembered special days.
And it doesn't matter that
I never saw you again.
I've been just fine without you.
So you see, it doesn't matter.