I miss the days
you’d whisper
into my young ear
the most wondrous of
childhood myths.
“You can be anything
you want to be,”
you assured me.
Perhaps you believed it too
back then.
But like so many sweet
childish things, this too
failed me, as soon as I
needed it
to be true.
Maybe it’s my fault
and I forced you to admit
the truth, like how Santa
died when I asked for
a pony.
Those words proved yet another
elaborate hoax, so while I dreamed,
childlike,
of writing,
you planned my medical career.
How should I react
now that I know the truth?
For I found out long ago that
wishing
doesn’t make things true.