Parade


We bake horrible pies. Our mothers say
they taste so great. Our brothers come home
from school, and we see the fathers
we hate on the street. We fall in love
with girls who feel ambivalent toward us.
We join sororities, or we don’t. We remember
all the jokes we’ve ever told by accident.
We love the dog. We scale
bunk beds like mountains to find old stuffed animals.
We are missing our mandatory online meetings.
We lose to our uncles in Wheel of Fortune,
but we win when Jeopardy comes on.
We got nose piercings. We dyed our hair
colors that make our mothers mad. We get
our butts handed to us in Mario Kart. We wear
unbearable holiday sweaters for the pictures.
We watch the parade balloons inflate
like lungs. We take so many photos. We miss lots
of stuff. We like each others’ haircuts.
We almost break a lot of fragile things. We are crying
laughing. We are getting home late tonight.
We’ll see each other again sometime, probably.
We are still in denial about some things.
We wear our college sweaters to sleep.

About The Author

Sylvi Stein (she/her) is an undergraduate at Columbia University. Her writing has been published by Surgam, Eunoia Review, and The Decameron Project. In her spare time, Sylvi can be found wandering the aisles of used book stores, even though she has more than enough to read at home.