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The Man Who Walked Out The Door -- poetry by Amy Lee

Minutes past noon, I see mother is still in bed.

Now she shakes her head, shakes me away and

will not rise. It is only the scraping of the front

door that wakes her. Sunlight streams in from


the only window, and soon I walk down the

kitchen stairs. The milk has been left outside

the fridge again. Water from the carton trickles

down on the countertop, shimmering at the


flickering lights above. Standing in the empty

room even the floor is cold. It feels like so soon

father would walk into the room warmed by the

boiling rice, his sweaty hands reaching for the


towel on the back of his chair and then to mother,

moiling among dinner dishes. Hands on her waist,

rocking to the sounds of the humming microwave.

But then he left. Now mother will only rise to the


creaking of her door, shifting from side to side in

her bed until she falls asleep again. There is fog

outside the window hanging like laundry between

trees. I think of the garden outside, outgrown by


weeds and moss, mother’s jindallae have fallen

and only the naked stem shudders with the wind.

If I ran outside barefoot, searching for fathers

shadows, mother would listen from her room.


If I sang the hymn before the prayer, mother would

listen from the kitchen. The sky tires and turns

away without a word. The lights in the house flicker

again. She listens and hears nothing.


 

Amy Lee is a fourteen-year-old student who is currently attending International School of Manila. During her free time, she likes hanging out with her friends and reading books while listening to music. Her works have been accepted in Eunoia Review, Uppagus, and others.

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