Dying Dreams after Tomorrow’s Born Today by Gerry E. Heber

 

A decade and a half ago

Young me turned sweet 16

To celebrate this joyous time

My mom bought me a ring

 

It was hideous and gaudy

Covered side to side in stone

For inspiration, when she chose the thing

She must have used her heart and soul

 

Months passed and yet it gathered dust

Inside a drawer inside a closet

She asked me why I never wore it

I told her that had many causes

 

I told her I was saving it

For something far more special

That I didn’t want to lose

A thing so sentimental

 

She said she didn’t buy it

To collect dead skin and dirt

By seeing my hand bare each day

She was insanely hurt

 

So I told her that I hated it

I told her it was ugly

And I told her she could wear it

If she thought it was so lovely

 

She said she traded her engagement ring

To get me something proper

I said, “The ring you hated

From the man you hated more: my father.”

 

So she took me to the jewelry store

So I could make a trade

Get a ring that I would wear

A simple stone.  A simple shade.

 

I told her that I really

Didn’t want a ring at all

A ring upon my finger

Made my skin begin to crawl

 

It mattered not to her, though

I should show appreciation

I needed something proper

Sweet 16 was an occasion

 

And, in a nutshell, ‘twas my life

It may not sound like torture

Forced to wear the finer things

Oh, the shock and horror

 

But that is not the point

Of me telling you this story

The point is she did what she wanted

Every day, for her, not me

 

I mustn’t wear the clothes I like

I mustn’t wear my hair up

I must learn all the trends and styles

Learn to do my makeup

 

I can’t have a guitar

For she will not support a pipe dream

I mustn’t be so fat

Lose my weight and self esteem

 

I shouldn’t date the boys I like

They were black, or short, or ugly

Shame on me for caring more

About if they would love me

 

I must live my life her way

Regardless how I suffer

The last thing she will be is

The bullied child’s mother

 

My dreams for me meant nothing

Her dreams for me supreme

And so I wore the finer things

And let my insides scream

 

But I’m not 16 anymore

And I have stopped complying

And in the pawn shop ‘cross the town

Her dreams for me are dying