Growing Up

Sometimes I borrowed my mother’s clothes

and her make-up, her high heels and handbags.

Of course, they were too big for me.

Same with daddy’s briefcase

and the suitcases we took on holiday trips.

When I saw the tiny red suitcase in the toyshop

I bought it with my birthday money.

It had thick shiny plastic

and looked really swish.

I took it everywhere.

 

When I grew older, I decided to become an artist

but my childish drawings were only ideas.

So I collected bits of coloured pictures,

discarded by older children at school.

Just the ones I liked best

and hid them in my suitcase.

No one got to look inside.

They were my secrets,

my special things

for inspiration

when I was grown up.

 

I had it all planned.

 

But by the time I was grown up

my secrets were just bits of torn paper

covered with scribbles and street dirt.

They meant nothing to me anymore,

and my tiny red suitcase

was dull and worn.

 

Dreams cracked and broke and finally

faded away.

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