Read Online Another Day as Emily by Eileen Spinelli - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Eileen Spinelli
Ads: Link
to enjoy
playing with her dog, Carlo.
Not surprising—since you can
actually do stuff with a dog:
Teach it tricks.
Take it for a walk.
Play fetch
or tug-of-war.
Groom it.
Pet it.
Enter it in shows.
Even volunteer it
for work in schools
or nursing homes.
Try doing any of that
with a goldfish.
THE LAST THING ON EMILY’S LIST
Listen to the crickets
.
Well, I can’t do that now.
It’s only 9:30 a.m.
I go back to
Read
.
I pick up
Emma
by Jane Austen.
I remember how much
I liked the miniseries.
No TV for me anymore,
though.
Ah well—don’t grown-ups
always say
the book is better?
LUNCHTIME
I read.
All.
Morning.
Long.
I decide
not to wait
until noon
for lunch.
At 11:49
I hear something.
Visitors?
I peek downstairs.
It’s just Mom
dusting the living room.
“Emily Dickinson
hated to dust,” I tell her.
“Hmmmm,” says Mom.
“I think I’ll get some lunch,”
I say.
Silence—except for
the swish of the dust cloth.
“Anything good
in the fridge?” I ask.
“Pasta salad.”
“You think Emily Dickinson
ate pasta salad?”
Mom stops dusting.
She gives me a look.
I know that look.
“Pasta salad it is,” I say.
GRUMPS
I eat by myself.
Then it’s back to my room.
I tell Carlo about Dad and how
he hardly spoke to me at breakfast.
And now Mom—all grumpy.
And Alison—some friend she turned out to be.
“What is wrong with people?” I say.
Carlo swims into her underwater castle.
No comment.
I GUESS I’LL WRITE A POEM
Emily wrote a lot about
the stuff around her.
The garden.
A bird outside her window.
A clock.
A fly.
She also wrote a lot about
death.
I guess I’ll stick to
the stuff around me.
Here goes …
POEM ABOUT THE STUFF AROUND ME
Here’s to my goldfish,
my desk, and my chair.
Here’s to the sneakers
I no longer wear.
Here’s to a hair clip,
a comb, and a mug.
Here’s to the fly
that is dead
on the rug.
DEATH AFTER ALL
I guess it’s all part of being
a poet—
this death stuff.
Even without meaning to
I got it into my poem.
I have a title for another
death poem.
How about
“Bored to Death”?
Except
I’m too bored
to write it.
READY
Time is a worm.
It crawls.
How did Emily
stand it?
I’m ready to
wimp out,
crack up,
give in,
and go back to being
plain old Suzy.
Then Mom comes up
to my room.
SUPPER INVITATION
Mom tells me that
the Capras
have invited
all the neighbors over
for lasagna
and homemade
ice cream.
“And live music,”
she says.
Mr. Capra’s nephew
is bringing his guitar.
I shrug.
“Sounds like fun,”
says Mom.
“I can’t go,” I tell her.
Mom throws her hands up
into the air.
“Of course you can go.”
“I’m Emily,” I remind her.
“I stay home.”
Mom takes a deep breath.
I wait for her to coax
just a little.
But she doesn’t.
She simply says,
“Suit yourself.”
And goes out the door.
MAYBE THIS TIME
Mrs. Capra sends Dad home
with a plate for me:
lasagna, salad, and bread.
Also a small container of
strawberry ice cream.
I wait for Dad to coax me
to come over.
One teeny-tiny coax
and I might topple.
But Parker is with him,
yanking at his shirt.
“Let’s go, Daddy.
We’re missing all the fun!”
MUSIC AND LAUGHTER
I take a couple bites
of lasagna.
And a spoonful of ice cream.
But I’m not hungry.
Music and laughter
spill across the air
into my window.
I slip into my nightie,
into my bed.
I pull the sheet
over my head.
Still the happy sounds.
But do you think
anyone,
anyone at all,
is asking,
“Where’s Suzy?—
I mean, where’s Emily?”
Ha!
Fat chance of that.
SAD
My heart feels like an egg
that has cracked—
sad is seeping out of me.
A tear is rolling down my cheek.
But who cares?
I MUST HAVE DOZED OFF
When I wake up, it’s 10:07 p.m.
Mom and Dad are whispering in the hallway.
Mom: “We need to do something.”
Dad: “Yep. It’s time.”
Mom: “Can’t ground
playing with her dog, Carlo.
Not surprising—since you can
actually do stuff with a dog:
Teach it tricks.
Take it for a walk.
Play fetch
or tug-of-war.
Groom it.
Pet it.
Enter it in shows.
Even volunteer it
for work in schools
or nursing homes.
Try doing any of that
with a goldfish.
THE LAST THING ON EMILY’S LIST
Listen to the crickets
.
Well, I can’t do that now.
It’s only 9:30 a.m.
I go back to
Read
.
I pick up
Emma
by Jane Austen.
I remember how much
I liked the miniseries.
No TV for me anymore,
though.
Ah well—don’t grown-ups
always say
the book is better?
LUNCHTIME
I read.
All.
Morning.
Long.
I decide
not to wait
until noon
for lunch.
At 11:49
I hear something.
Visitors?
I peek downstairs.
It’s just Mom
dusting the living room.
“Emily Dickinson
hated to dust,” I tell her.
“Hmmmm,” says Mom.
“I think I’ll get some lunch,”
I say.
Silence—except for
the swish of the dust cloth.
“Anything good
in the fridge?” I ask.
“Pasta salad.”
“You think Emily Dickinson
ate pasta salad?”
Mom stops dusting.
She gives me a look.
I know that look.
“Pasta salad it is,” I say.
GRUMPS
I eat by myself.
Then it’s back to my room.
I tell Carlo about Dad and how
he hardly spoke to me at breakfast.
And now Mom—all grumpy.
And Alison—some friend she turned out to be.
“What is wrong with people?” I say.
Carlo swims into her underwater castle.
No comment.
I GUESS I’LL WRITE A POEM
Emily wrote a lot about
the stuff around her.
The garden.
A bird outside her window.
A clock.
A fly.
She also wrote a lot about
death.
I guess I’ll stick to
the stuff around me.
Here goes …
POEM ABOUT THE STUFF AROUND ME
Here’s to my goldfish,
my desk, and my chair.
Here’s to the sneakers
I no longer wear.
Here’s to a hair clip,
a comb, and a mug.
Here’s to the fly
that is dead
on the rug.
DEATH AFTER ALL
I guess it’s all part of being
a poet—
this death stuff.
Even without meaning to
I got it into my poem.
I have a title for another
death poem.
How about
“Bored to Death”?
Except
I’m too bored
to write it.
READY
Time is a worm.
It crawls.
How did Emily
stand it?
I’m ready to
wimp out,
crack up,
give in,
and go back to being
plain old Suzy.
Then Mom comes up
to my room.
SUPPER INVITATION
Mom tells me that
the Capras
have invited
all the neighbors over
for lasagna
and homemade
ice cream.
“And live music,”
she says.
Mr. Capra’s nephew
is bringing his guitar.
I shrug.
“Sounds like fun,”
says Mom.
“I can’t go,” I tell her.
Mom throws her hands up
into the air.
“Of course you can go.”
“I’m Emily,” I remind her.
“I stay home.”
Mom takes a deep breath.
I wait for her to coax
just a little.
But she doesn’t.
She simply says,
“Suit yourself.”
And goes out the door.
MAYBE THIS TIME
Mrs. Capra sends Dad home
with a plate for me:
lasagna, salad, and bread.
Also a small container of
strawberry ice cream.
I wait for Dad to coax me
to come over.
One teeny-tiny coax
and I might topple.
But Parker is with him,
yanking at his shirt.
“Let’s go, Daddy.
We’re missing all the fun!”
MUSIC AND LAUGHTER
I take a couple bites
of lasagna.
And a spoonful of ice cream.
But I’m not hungry.
Music and laughter
spill across the air
into my window.
I slip into my nightie,
into my bed.
I pull the sheet
over my head.
Still the happy sounds.
But do you think
anyone,
anyone at all,
is asking,
“Where’s Suzy?—
I mean, where’s Emily?”
Ha!
Fat chance of that.
SAD
My heart feels like an egg
that has cracked—
sad is seeping out of me.
A tear is rolling down my cheek.
But who cares?
I MUST HAVE DOZED OFF
When I wake up, it’s 10:07 p.m.
Mom and Dad are whispering in the hallway.
Mom: “We need to do something.”
Dad: “Yep. It’s time.”
Mom: “Can’t ground
Similar Books
