No man will stand on a wooden plank
Carved by my father
One of the few hobbies he indulges in
The smell of sawdust and sweat
Evokes a kind of familiarity I never received
But will never recover from.
That’s what family is for.
I bound dirt to my hair
it left a stain
so dark I couldn’t even recognize my mother’s eyes
My sister and I,
Both brown eyed
Renewed a reason he could never be family
Orla Simpson is a student at Durham School of the Arts. She has been published in her school’s literary magazine. She also wrote and helped produce a play through her school’s theater program. She enjoys writing poetry and playing frisbee.