Small Feet by Juliet Bond

Age Eight

Small feet,
touch floor.

You whisper, "Wake up.  Just for a minute.  Wake up."

I move aside the coverlet, covered in animals in various shades of 1970's green.
My three-year-old sister whines.

We follow you into the room where he sits hunched in one corner of the bed.

Small feet,
climb up.

"Your dad is moving out."  You say, "choose."
For me, there is no choice.

But I worry about,
my sister.

Small feet,
crawl into your lap.

When I look back, his head hangs like a neck broken.
You are triumphant.

Smaller feet,
follow me to you.

A choice is made.
A side is taken.

You send us back to the room with the green blankets,
into the dark night.

Small feet,
Overwhelming power.