Fleeting Grades

The crinkled envelope lies by the door,

like a verdict of worth, nothing more.

My heart quickens at the sight of the seal,

my mom’s casual tone, a thorn I can feel.

“Straight A’s!” she beams, but I drown in red,

each mark a reminder of what’s left unsaid.

The pressure, a weight that never unwinds,

my dreams stifled by numbers, confined.

If only they’d measure the hopes and the years,

the laughter, the struggles, the shadowed fears.