[we won’t use it in the worship…]
i used to wear my hair in piggy tails in the hope
i’d wake up to be Cindy Brady
and that the arguments in our hallway would be about
the new pay-phone in the family room
or who broke Carol’s favourite vase with the basketball
and that they’d be resolved with a moral and a hug after only thirty minutes
(minus the ad breaks)
i thought that was what homes were like.
everyone else’s but mine.
was it only in my home that the arguments went on for days
no clear winner, ever,
no glistening moral that could be framed and hung on the wall
next to the “Bless this house” plaque
just misunderstandings, unkept promises and secrets, glued over each other,
layers of wallpaper begging to be stripped by some sociological renovator in years to come.
and each night we’d sit around the dinner table,
the Bradys’ bickering as our soundtrack,
serving each other our false illusions and deceptions
as easily as we served each other the potatoes.