Sundays. Poem by Shannon Nicole

'I don't remember my day, so it probably wasn't important.'
I didn't do anything that great.
Left the house maybe twice.
Wreaked of my mother's Misty Menthol 120's.
Looked up responsibilities of a maid of honor,
Searched for dresses for the bride's maids,
Made fun of the thought of my brothers in kilts.
That's what my day consisted of.
Multiple hours of watching the same movie over and over,
Because my baby sister wanted to watch the monsters again.
Finally able to watch a movie that interests me,
And mid movie, maybe the conflict,
And my mother asks me to go with her to run into the stores for her,
Because she's too pregnant to do so.
I was told in the morning,
That once her fiance got home,
We'd leave him with the kids,
And we'd leave and go shopping so I could buy some clothes.
We ended not going,
Because she was getting tired,
'It's getting late, ' so she says,
Though it's only six o'clock.
This happens every weekend,
Whether I'm with my father or my mother,
So, I give up.
I'm done asking for something,
I'm okay with everything,
Which is why I said,
'I don't remember my day, so it probably wasn't important.'
Really.
It wasn't.