Those Who Don't

Scarves

My family is like a scarf

My dad would be the frayed ends

Showing how worn down he is

How “at the end of his rope” he is 

Mom would be the holes

How they were “thrown in”

For “decoration,” the weaver said

But were picked at constantly

Until they gape, stressed

My brother and I are the threads

We weave and connect

Passed back and forth

Unimportant and unnoticed,

But always there