Good Luck

By: Michala Schram

Poetry

Vanished are lists with juice boxes, ice cream sandwiches,

and bubblegum toothpaste, walking down the sidewalk hand in hand

to the bus stop with a nervous stomach and a cup of lukewarm coffee.

Fourth grade turned into eighth grade, turned into senior year, and ordering a graduation cake with the letters in shaky cursive with bright blue icing —

“Good luck!”

Good luck is all we had growing up with the hope that dinner on the table

was something to be eaten and not complained about,

signs of scrapping by with hotdogs in white bread and elbow noodles in butter —

a delicacy to a nine-year-old, and safety for a family.

Now the mornings of rustling leaves in the cool November breeze of orange leaves and sunshine creeping out of the clouds,

come to a hault with sunshine on the evergreen trees with heat radiating from the sidewalk.

Summer is here, college is at the corner of

“What do you want to be when you grow up,” and,

“How to survive better than my parents did.”

All you know now is success is driven in the car on the highway to the university to start your life in the path that your parents never did,

but always hoped you’d take —