lost under the old creaky bed
father calls home.
It is the story of pink Ice cream,
bent knees and rings–
embroidered version of how I got here.
Mother used to say tall tales
were just for short-sighted and
Mother used to say true stories never die.
Who am I to tell the depth of a thin sheet?
Or fables in fading letters written on a blank sheet?
Who am I to retell a story already told?
I look at father for hidden answers and he says
“Who are you dear?”