You know when you walk by
and you see it shine, it just catches your eye.
You smile wide and pull on mom’s hand;
mother can we go in just for a second.
For 20 minutes you beg and you plead.
You con your way into this toy factory.
You walk straight to the back and there it is,
the shiny red truck you’ve been cherishing.
You fool around for a little bit,
caught in the moment you forget mother’s not having it.
Next thing you know “come on lets go,”
she’s grabbing you by the ear and you say “no!”
She drags you kicking and screaming from the store,
you tell her you don’t want to be her son anymore.
Tears and all you’re dragged away abhorred,
emotions and all respect destroyed.
The next morning you walk down the street
only to see another kid and his mother playing with the green jeep.
You stick your face to the window and stare in awe
as he places his hand on your red truck in the store.
Your heart splices in two as he moves it across the floor.
You curse your mother for what she’d done before.
You see them approach the register and your only thought is “oh no”
the store clerk scans the truck tag and it comes up at $24.
Maybe Christmas you think to yourself. Maybe my birthday.
But it never came. Twenty-four Christmases and birthdays went and came
And while you’re far too old, you’ll never forget it all the same.
You will always want that very truck you saw on that bittersweet day.