I buried a toy,
Deep in the snow outside my home.
It was your car,
a toy truck full of lights and sounds.
It was too noisy,
just like my dad when he yelled at my mom.
It was too flashy,
just like my mom's friend who wore brightly colored clothes.
Red and orange,
That was the top,
So bright, so vivid against the white of the snow.
The red used to hurt my eyes.
Red scared me,
Red used to fall on me often.
Sometimes from mom, sometimes from dad.
Sometimes from their friend.
As I write this,
shivers run down my spine.
Even thinking of red scares me,
maybe that's why I don't drive.
Red didn't just mean stop then.
It was a warning, a flash;
before more red or before the colorless tears.
Blank like the snow.
They made red calmer,
they made red - pink,
Maybe that's why her lips were painted pink.
A sign of the coming red and white rain.
That's why I buried your truck,
because red was scary,
I thought it would mix with white and we could play again.
I think I dug too deep.
It had two small lights in the front,
they shone threateningly;
flashing at the bare snow.
Like my mom's glasses.
She had big glasses, and she was tall.
She had light on her glasses, sometimes
and they shone like these lights.
Other times I could see dad in them,
he was so close,
More red, more angry, more light.
Mommy changed thirteen glasses.
She used to count them,
laugh and mop the pieces and didn't let me touch them.
They were just like lot's of snow.
She said I might get hurt.
But I can touch snow,
Snow hurts me too.
But I can touch it,
and it becomes glass again.
Sorry I buried the truck that day,
I just didn't want to see the red.
I wanted the glass sheet of snow,
to show me that it's over.
Everything is normal.
maybe if I wouldn't have hidden the truck,
you wouldn't have cried.
Ran away from me,
into a real truck.
You became red too.
And I will forever remain white.