I'm glad you came

He never called me by my nickname.
I thought that was weird.
But now it feels special.

We never talk.
I hate the silence.
I can't carry a conversation alone.

I tried, oh I tried.
I thought he didn't care.
So I stopped trying.

There was that summer, long ago.
Bike riding, colliding,
crashing through the undergrowth in the woods.

Skinned knees, and bee stings,
root beer popsicles,
and pacts not to tell.

He taught me to read.
Morris the Moose goes to school.
My first book.

He knew I was smart before I did.
We were pals.
For a time.

Suddenly I'm that little girl again,
yearning for his affection.
Why don't you like me, I silently scream.

I try to make conversation.
He barely responds,
staring at me like I'm insane.

Why won't you talk to me.
Tell me about yourself.
What's going on in your life.

They are buddies now.
They snicker at me when I talk.
Whatever I said must be mighty funny.

I tag along to the pool,
the third wheel.
Oh, to think I once filled that coveted spot.

Anger seethes inside of me,
the unfairness of life.
My only fault was growing up.

They sing me happy birthday,
and he says my name.
My real name.

We may not talk
but here he is
on my birthday.

We may not talk
but there he was
in the ambulance after my car accident.

We may not talk
and I hate that
and I wish it weren't so.

But isn't that what family does?
They show up.
And that's as good as saying I love you.