When I was four, asking about Santa

my mom told me that anything was possible 

if I only believed in it hard enough.

 

She knew that falling into Narnia was improbable

but at age eight nobody could tell me what was impossible.  

When the arguing in my parent’s room rose

To volumes that for the neighbors was fairly audible,

I turned to my books full of valleys and shadows

Looking for that passage to mountains uncrossable.

 

I was utterly convinced

that I could find Prydain behind the swingset.

The sandbox contained an endless abyss

which would allow me an escape from taking math tests.

The wood behind my house was definitely Mirkwood,

and those strange weeds were definitely a threat.  

 

When we moved to Utah at age ten, I was entranced 

by the towering mountains around which clouds danced.

They looked exactly like the Misty Mountains

when the crisp air and snow enhanced

the sharp curves on which I knew fauns nightly pranced.

 

I watched the skies for dragons flying

and pressed my ear to the ground,

hoping to hear giants stomping.  

I made up a chant that I recited before bed

while tying around my finger a single strand of thread,

just trying to get to some magical land 

where my mother didn’t cry and my father didn’t stare blankly, and I,

I didn’t have this feeling of dread in my heart--

 

At age twelve my parents got a divorce.  

I finally stopped believing.