DEP NARRATIVE POEM

Broken Glass Ballads

Photo by Vitaly Gariev on Unsplash

Scattered clouds drifted, a light autumn breeze brushed my cheek, contempt on the first day of eighth grade. I hugged books I never wanted as Freya, the cool girl, stuck out her foot. I fell, pavement biting, glasses shattered, laughter erupted, mocking fingers. Mom’s last ten bucks were lost to glass. For two days, I squinted, feigned weak knees, fed teachers' excuses. Mom sighed over bills, set them in the glovebox, her sigh, a sharp pain.

On the way home, Mom blinked and veered to the shoulder of the road, engine running. A breeze pushed dust through the vents. Mom smoked, flicked ash. She cried. I told her to give up her pride, ask her wealthy parents for help. She wiped her eyes, laughing. “Kids are so smart.” A palpable silence. “It was a girl, Mom,” I said, hugging myself. “Freya clocked you?” She arched a brow. I nodded. She covered her mouth, a muffled chuckle. “You’re not taking this seriously.” “Right, honey.” She touched my shoulder and laughed again. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.” Mom nudged me. “She likes you.” She tossed the cigarette. My eyes widened. “She likes me?” Hand to my chest. “Duh…and you like her.” I shifted. “And if I do?” “There’s no if. You’re head over heels for her.” I raked my hair. “It’s like she likes embarrassing me.” “She doesn’t want anyone else to like you.” I softened. “You sure?” “I felt the same about your dad.” “When’s he coming home?” “That’s why I picked you up. Dad just got home.” She brushed my face. “The war is over.” I was proud of Dad for returning from the shores of Iran. My gaze captured her attention. She shifted in her seat, eyeing me. Mom threw a punch in the air. “That’s what I want you to do to the kid who punched your glasses.” I tried not to, but I snorted a laugh. Mom folded her lips under her teeth.

She shook her head. “What am I gonna do with you?” She turned over her shoulder and signaled to enter traffic.

Freya hates me as though she knows me. But Freya knows nothing about me. I hung on the edge of a waste of time. But a senior pulled me out of the water. I can’t even die right. That’s how cool I am. Or uncool, depending on how you look at the afterlife. I believe in saving grace, but the only logical reason God placed me in this garden was to test Freya’s trust and my luck. I developed a toned frame dark, thick, styled hair. My jeans hugged in all the right places. I saw her tongue dance behind her lips. Tears burned my cheeks after hours of dreaming over shots at mindful dive bars. Freya began to surface at places I happened to be. She’d make it a point to make eye contact, then wrap her long, dark hair around her neck as if to tempt me for a bite. What she did made it right in my eyes. Mom caught wind of our mutual crush and told me she’s a keeper. Mom told me if I didn’t marry Freya, she’d kick my ass. I cracked a smile. Mom’s stern gaze softened. I embraced Mom. Tears spread across her cheeks.

• On the way down the aisle, she had the same confident posture with damp eyes. Freya tripped over her long, white dress, falling face first. The crowd shrieked. I snorted, but I held my breath. But I guided her to her feet. She placed one hand over her stomach and threw her head back, cackling to tears. “It’s what I deserve.” Freya nudged me. Laughter spilled through my lips as her friends laughed at me that day. But this was out of grace, not insecurity.

[embed]©A Day to Remember, All Signs Point to Lauderdale, 2010. All rights reserved.

©AC, Broken Glass Ballads, 2026. All rights reserved.

Other posts on Dancing Elephants Press

[embed]Death’s Whisper Poetrymedium.com

[embed]Some Dreams Don’t Make the Front Page Dreams sometimes are just dreamsmedium.com

✍ — Edited and Published by Garima Sharma at Dancing Elephants Press. Click here for submission guidelines.