Hand-Me-Downs and Broken Dreams

My childhood wore hand-me-down shoes,

gladiator sandals bought too big,

slipping loose with every mile.

Still, the journeys were my own,

each step a claim,

each stumble a story.

Toys in my hands, never new,

pieces missing, colors few.

Laughter cracked, wheels askew,

yet I played as if they flew.

Rainbows bent and broken low,

promises whispered, but never grow.

Every dream felt borrowed thin,

splintered before it could begin.

Books in my hands, never mine,

names of strangers on the line.

Margins scarred with someone’s thoughts,

erasures ghosting lessons taught.

Every page a borrowed voice,

every word a second choice.

School was another hand-me-down —

a pinafore stiff with someone else’s years,

a place where I wore a life

that was never mine.

Christmas lived in shadows near,

light from windows we held dear.

Boxes wrapped but hollow inside,

still we placed them side by side.

My dress spun bright though simple thread,

joy was stitched in what I had.

We walked the long mile to grandparents’ doors,

only to meet plates measured out with grudging hands,

our hunger tucked quietly behind our eyes.

And still, in our kitchen,

the tiny ovenette glowed deep into night,

coaxing sweetness from scarcity,

each cookie a fragile act of defiance

against what we lacked.

All of it handed to me like broken glass —

dreams cracked, laughter fractured,

shoes that could not hold.

And yet I held them close,

for even in ruin they were mine.

Now, when I look back,

I see not only what was broken

but what endured —

a child’s small joys,

the fragile beauty of holding on

to whatever light we could find.

©️Lyia Meta

Image by WiX