Watermelon Seeds

Watermelon Seeds
It had been two years since
the yells
and the fights
and fearful accusations
Two years since
mother's tears
a sister's tightly clasped white hands

But two years
doesn't always mean
change

Still, mother's tears
on an envelope
that sister grasped
with white hands
but no more
yells
or fights
or fearful accusations

Only happy Sundays
waking up
entwined
with the world on the doorstep
right on top of the spindly
doormat with the faded welcome
right beside the fat newspaper
that was bound
with the fat rubber band

It's not that
She didn't miss
the time before,
two years before:
ten years before.
barefeet
on hot pavement
spitting watermelon seeds
warm sun on tanned limbs

But now
was good too
days filled with
routine
days of washing the scent of
strawberries
into auburn locks
and silky tendrils
spilling down
a still wet back

The happy clatter of plates
and the happy chatter of two beings
as one, cohabitation
unlike the silence,
the mother's tears
and sister's white hands
grasping tightly on themselves
to keep from falling apart

Two years to the day
is a fallen calendar page.
Torn off with a vehemence
that goes unnoticed.

Unnoticed amongst the
fat newspapers with their fat rubber bands
Amongst the scent of strawberries,
and the happy clatter,
and the happy Sundays
And the world on the doorstep

Unnoticed because of the
fat newspapers with their fat rubber bands
Because of the scent of strawberries,
and the happy clatter,
and the happy Sundays
And the world on the doorstep

And the torn calendar page.

And there was nobody spitting watermelon seeds.