No ribbons, bows or pink lace, only curly long locks around my

freckled face, I don’t want dolls or to play with others,

I only want to dress up and go to town, Mom and Pop’s

 spent too much time arguing, too many empty whiskey

bottles, upset furniture, messes for me to clear up, and

too many trips to town without me, I’m ten.

Years later: We lived in a shot-gun shanty on the

Mississippi River,

I wore new homemade clothes that smelled old before

I wore them, no time for fun or friends, we carried water for

 baths, and it seems like the only warmth in our shack

came from an old iron “pot-bellied” coal stove huddled

in the corner, as if an intruder, “River rat, river rat!” That’s

what they called me!

Years later: I never got ribbons, bows or pink lace, only long

braided hair that hid my face;  I chased lizards,  slimy,

slithery ones,

and turtles;

I loved watching the frogs and birds, flip pity flop pity,

high-flying ones;

I loved the pretty colored rainbow sent after a storm;

and when I caught  falling stars, putting them in my pocket,

I made wishes every day,  for

ribbons, bows and pink lace; and still do!