She was here

When I was eight years old

My sister was invited to a sleepover

I was a year younger, and I was not invited

It was fair, I wasn't the other girl's friend

And I wouldn't have allowed it the other way around

But I was angry that I was going to be left alone in the house

With a flash of fury and missing forethought

Fueled by jealous and loneliness

I wrote on the railing of the staircase

SHE WAS HERE

I wrote her name instead of mine

I was hoping that the adults would see

And that she would be forced to come home

As a punishment that I had framed her for

I wonder if she knew that her name would be there a while longer

The graffiti was not cleaned or painted over

Until the house was sold, she had proof of her life there

It's like when we splattered paint on the basement wall

And we pressed our painted palms in

It's like how every place I've lived, I find myself

I'm in the wear and tear

I'm in the furniture choices

I'm in the routines and tricks

It's like how every day I capture a moment

I try to actively remember how I felt

I take pictures and frame the memory

I tell the stories to weave throughout my life

I know the people throughout time felt this same longing

Did the people in the paleolithic age want to share their lives?

Did they press their hands in the stone to remember themselves?

Did they paint their stories to weave history?

Did they know that they were only the beginning?