Middle of my childhood summer:
I’d ask Mom to hide Easter eggs around the house.
She’d heave an exasperated, motherly sigh,
likely on behalf of finding
pastel baubles under couches year-round.
She only participated half the times,
and with limbs scraping the rough of the carpet,
I’d pile all the eggs in the bottom of my shirt,
folded up over the treasure and exposing
the rounded surface of my little-girl belly.
I guess I’ve always liked finding lost things,
like Easter eggs and stories, and Dad’s car keys and
my sister when she ran off in the grocery store.
I gave up on scavenger hunts once I got my braces,
My mouth full of treasure overwhelming the seasons.
But easing myself into a hiding place
Required less effort than my mother
tossing synthetic eggs behind curtains.
Fold me up into a fetal ball and
close me into pale plastic.
Maybe someday my mother will unearth me
beneath a pile of dust, cluck her tongue,
and set me on the kitchen counter
beside the fruit bowl
in the sun.
Kaylee Pratt enjoys half-dead trees (also known as autumn), jogging uphill (also known as torture), and collecting books (also known as drooling at Barnes & Noble). Despite her literary obsessions, she’s studying as a Creative Media major at Champlain College in order to extend her storytelling into less conventional mediums.