Aeroplanes for Fingertips

When the rains come for our house again this year,
I will know I have turned four.
My mother tells me I woke amidst the rubble like a phoenix,
with a smirk on my face that deemed me invincible,
because if nature’s wrath couldn’t destroy me, I doubt anything will.

I have spent every birthday ever since playing pirate in my own home,
scrounging for treasured memories in lost lands,
and waiting for the water to dry out,
only to rebuild beginnings over graveyards that once smelled like home.

Four planes fly over my cloudy skies every day,
the first one follows me to school while the third one leads me back home,
the last one is louder than the rest,
it cuts through the silence of the night,
as if to say,
no matter how familiar the quiet gets,
the storm will always find its way back.

Thunder sounds a lot like aeroplanes,
and isn’t it funny how they could both lead to a new home?
But I am done hoping for a plane that does not disappear into the horizon,
school may not have taught me much,
but it has taught me songs of hope and cries for help,
and the ability to differentiate between the two.
So the next time thunder strikes,
I will match it beat for beat with my song of survival,
and at least build myself a life raft
if not an aeroplane to get me out.


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