I lied to friends when I was 8 years old.
I claimed that I could spin without a drop
my hula hoop a million times. I told
them once and thought their eyes would pop,
but “no” they said, and then I didn’t stop
repeating my assertion, hearing “no”
thrice more before they said they had to go.
I figured they accepted my last “yes” –
they didn’t argue when they went away,
but something seemed a little off. I guess
that’s why I felt dissatisfied dismay.
They hadn’t looked convinced, but didn’t say
another “no.” I grew a little sad,
and took both claim and puzzle to my dad.
“A million times?” he questioned with a calm
affect, affection in his hazel eyes.
“How long,” he queried with an upturned palm,
“do you think it would take to count that high?”
The conversation filled me with surprise
and comprehension. So my conscience grew –
I learned a lie unmet is still untrue.