Hopscothing (part 1 of 2)

My fingers are sticky,

collect dust

like a child with chalk

in summer.

Gnats are irritating

with no sound.

I often write from the center

of my suffering; memories

causing me grief.

As a young girl, I drew

squares on the pavement,

sent the rock

hopscotching to the sound

of closing city doors,

the squall of alley cats,

the old woman

saying sit Missy, sit,

before crossing the street.

My suffering then was light,

the ball of it growing

over years of silence,

bouncing to push me forward

in fear, reminding me

that life may offer daggers.