The Family By:Kilee De La Cruz

The Family by Kilee De La Cruz

I hate it when there is a family get together

And they talk in voices that sound like knives being sharpened.
The metal grinding into another
Scratching scratching scratching, Noises so sharp.
It seeps into your teeth, making your jaw ache
It resonates to your ear drums, leaving the pain in its wake.
You can never leave the sound, for it haunts you
And some wear jackets and long t-shits for the cold
But they don’t know that it’s only Arizona
For the weather is so hot that it feels like an inferno
The heat wraps you up like your mom did when you were a child
But only to smother you slowly till you can’t recognize your tears from your sweat.

They are always the ones that judge you before your able to plead your case

Questioning your life decisions before it has begun

Wanting to become the puppet masters to your life
Letting you drown in your frailer, never letting you resurface.

The family seemed normal on the outside but they were different
The judgment, the hopefulness, the fear of leaving their small town
Always asking so much from others but never themselves
Pushing God bearing ideals on the youth
Feeding the word but never practicing the word

Feeling of uneasiness, was never lost when they got together
You couldn’t escape like you couldn’t escape from your heart beating
Always had to stay in the background, never speak
For it wasn’t your place, even as a grown adult
No opinions wanting to be heard except their own

 Entertaining the children was your job, nothing more

You were not a part of the family, just a babysitter
Never caring just doing, hoping when it would finally end
When will they realize that you never waned to be a part of it, ever

The Aunts

By Joyce Sutphen b. 1949 Joyce Sutphen

I like it when they get together

and talk in voices that sound
like apple trees and grape vines,

and some of them wear hats

and go to Arizona in the winter,
and they all like to play cards.

 They will always be the ones

who say “It is time to go now,”
even as we linger at the door,

or stand by the waiting cars, they
remember someone—an uncle we
never knew—and sigh, all

of them together, like wind

in the oak trees behind the farm
where they grew up—a place

I remember—especially

the hen house and the soft

clucking that filled the sunlit yard.The Aunts

The Aunts

I like it when they get together

and talk in voices that sound

like apple trees and grape vines,

 

and some of them wear hats

and go to Arizona in the winter,

and they all like to play cards.

 

They will always be the ones

who say “It is time to go now,”

even as we linger at the door,

 

or stand by the waiting cars, they

remember someone—an uncle we

never knew—and sigh, all

 

of them together, like wind

in the oak trees behind the farm

where they grew up—a place

 

I remember—especially

the hen house and the soft

clucking that filled the sunlit yard.