Growing Up

This piece is based on a true story of the magic of being a lower middle class kid in the southern us. I didn't realize at the time we didn't have much money. To me, going to the trash dump was magical. I wanted to write this piece on how perspectives changes as we age. Not only do we begin to realize there's a world of classism we're a part of, but also, the things that were magical as children don't hold the same light. There's a small death in that to me. This poem makes me reflect on that little bit of magic, born of broken things, which are all so beautiful if we pay attention.

————

When I was kid

I dreamed of being 

a trash collector 

as my brother and I 

would ride in the back 

of my dad’s truck 

to the place 

of abandoned things 

I was enchanted by all 

the things discarded 

old chairs

rusted out cars

broken playthings 

I imagined how I’d turn it all 

into a treasure 

to add to my troves

I wonder what it is

about growing up 

that we stop seeing magic 

in these every day things

when does an old chair becomes junk?

when is a rusty car is a lost cause?

when did something broken 

become unworthy?

By Melissa H Hinton

From: United States

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