Somewhere it's still 7 A.M. (Afterglow)

The sun shines through my window,
but it's not the same.
Not the same sun,
not the same state,
and not the same feeling.
There isn't the humming of trash day,
and it's not 7 in the morning.
I'm no longer 8 years old,
and I don't attend Buena Vista.
And I'm not awakened by the words of someone wrapped in a blanket.
She no longer walks me to the school entrance and wishes me a good day,
doesn't drive me to the school in that same green car with tan seating,
and I don't remember pickup day by the Totoro sticker on the back of that car.
No more errands to the Asian shop,
and no more salads and mac and cheese.
I will never forget our big backyard that was two yards in one,
and the trampoline I spent hot days in,
talking about the shapes in clouds,
watching as they passed
from sunup to sundown.
How my dog would always escape through the fence,
and those small chairs colored pink, purple, and red,
and the little holes littering them from cats' claws.
Small lockers that were different colors my siblings had,
each covered in glittery stars and stickers,
and how I always used to steal from theirs.
The painting on the wall,
or the Paris stickers and bedsheets,
the desk area I never entered belonging to my father,
and her small room that used to have our dollhouse in it.
The long closet with his ties,
or the small mascara print on the glass that's probably still there,
or the small little yellow Barbie car covered in cheap stickers.
And how I loved running around in my colored tights.
All the all-nighters I had pulled in the rocking chair,
or how I cried in that same seat watching puppies be rescued.
How I faked sleep to hear what they thought of me,
how bad my brother felt after knocking out my baby tooth.
The animes my sister showed me that we never finished together,
and how much I loved getting out of the house.
Me testing the Tooth Fairy by not telling anybody about losing baby teeth,
and those nights I spent scared of my own stuffies.
The pink poodle,
or the short England beagle,
the attorney's office,
and eating carrots.
The fat pig toy I broke,
those steps I swore I saw the elves move on.
Buddy, Lucy, Noel, and Evergreen.
The days my school would walk to the garden and the lessons we learned,
the recipes put on the wall in those plastic blue slots,
and the handmade turkey crafts made with our fingerprints near the steps.
The table we almost never actually ate at,
and the marble kitchen counters,
with the stale-smelling pantry.
Putting an egg through the ice machine,
playing on all fours in the kitchen,
the little marble arts and crafts.
Daddy-daughter days that included donuts,
and learning how to count by fives.
That white Mercedes with the black Audi,
the gray garage that smelled oddly satisfying,
that we once tried saving a hurt baby bird in.
Learning how to ride a bike with hot pink training wheels,
and the small glass coffee table I used to hide under when I thought I was sneaky.
My sister's work I loved visiting, wondering when I'd ever work,
and the two-hour-long drives to my grandparents,
and crashing my wiggle car into a rose bush.
Putting up Christmas decorations with my grandma,
and that altar of Baby Jesus with the star in the front yard she was always so proud of.
Drives through light shows when it came that time of year,
asking for makeup or slime for Christmas,
and eating small powdered donuts off of a wire with our feet.
Playing pin the donkey,
white elephant,
and seeing whose drawing was the best.
And that picture of me holding that yellow flower in my sparkly purple dress when I had bangs,
and how that flower is still on the wall in my grandparents' office, dried up now.
Playing Chubby Bunny and spitting everywhere,
walking to Walmart with my brother.
The names Cyan, Angel, Luke, and Cylie.
And the feeling of when it would rain or storm after so long of hot, moist air.
How my grandparents and us would go on camping trips together,
and I loved their RV.
That office with the dinky grayish-tan table and glass sliding window
I used to watch geckos do push-ups at,
or the big tree in the front I watched grow and lose its leaves.
Jets passing over, doves cooing below.
Playing Mr. Wolf,
and being spun around by my hands.
That playset in the back,
and the two swings where a bee once dropped on my head while I was playing on them.
And the teal headphones you had to twist a certain way to hear from,
or playing with water balloons in the back.
Grandma wanting her chair,
that we'd all joke about.
Papa's brown chair,
and his tan couch that was fought over.
Playing Wii Sports with my brother till night,
and sleeping on the floor and hitting my head on the glass table when I woke.
Croissan'wiches, Lilly salad, and Tayler Tea.
Waking to the sound of my brother and grandma watching The Walking Dead together,
and my grandpa's studio.
Squeakers.
And Thanksgivings spent outside in the back on that glass table,
and the Cat in the Hat movie that filled me with dopamine,
that I watched over and over.
But I wake up to the sound of an alarm
and it's 6 a.m.,
and I'm not eight,
and it's been five years.
The haze through my window
is an awful reminder
of mornings that don't come back
just sunlight through the window,
afterglow.