“Let’s play Rock Band!” “Let’s play Rampage!”
We’ll lose track of time, hours at least, as we smash the controllers;
friendly competition always present.
You’ll walk me down the hall, my feet on top of yours,
moving in sync with each other like a well-oiled machine.
You’ll take me to expos to expand my Hot Wheel collection;
and buy me new Beanie Babies
every year we go to the shore as a family.
I’ll watch you set up the rusting train tracks at Christmas;
You’ll watch me meticulously dot the board with trees,
creating a village of tiny plastic people.
We’ll zip around the car tracks with little handheld remotes,
sporting our matching Nascar gear;
your number 3 hat and my Dale Earnheart t-shirt.
There are no winners.
It’s been so long since I’ve said these words;
I tap the buttons in solitude.
I walk down the hall, emptiness echoing around me;
mom’s removed the wedding photo that used to hang there.
I sold my Hot Wheel collection at a yard sale;
my Beanie Babies live in the attic with the dust bunnies.
The train tracks have rusted beyond use;
the fire place missing a stocking.
Car tracks we used to race each other on split in two;
or are at your apartment somewhere.
There are no winners,
because we both lost.