In another world, my mother doesn't

meet my father.

In another world, it is softer, kinder for

different people.

In another world, my mother lives in a

cabin hidden in the mountains,

the creak of a rocking chair, the smell of baking.

She wears soft blue jeans and old, faded

flannel shirts.

She smiles at her chickens and lives

slow by a crackling fire.

In another world, my father doesn't meet

my mother.

In another world, it is softer, kinder to a

sweet little boy.

In another world, there is no screaming

or alcohol.

My father finishes top of his class

and makes it to the moon.

In another world, he strums his guitar

while coffee brews.

Rain falls softly, and it feels like home.

In another world,

I exist only in their dreams.

In the smell of rain, in the warmth of the

sun.

I twinkle in the stars and curl

in the steam of a hot cup.

I flicker in the lightning bugs

and rumble in the sky.

I am the soft, warm wind

in the chime of music

I am in the sparks from my mother's fire

and I am safe.