the scent of clover

an upturned leaf

and an old rugged sunlit tree greet me

on a summer’s eve walk

eliciting my childhood glory days:

endless sunshine

harvesting bouquets of sweet clover and thistle for my mom and my dolls

building forts under the overgrown weed we call our climbing tree

swinging as high as  possible until we are quite airborne

quiet games on the shady stoop on brutally tropical july days

seersucker sun suits, petite swimsuits, red white and blue short sets

rubber thongs that only cost 50 cents at the Ben Franklin

cookouts with hamburgers sweet corn and garden tomatoes

coloring with all the neighborhood kids and hoping the ice cream truck would sing to us of frosty desires;

Popsicle stickiness and koolaid grins

bike rodeos and playing school

swimming pool soaks shrinking us into raisins

nutty brown tans adorning sun bleached baby curls

tuna salad overwhelmed by little peas and shell pasta

counting the stars as they emerge at dusk

station wagon family rides on steamy august evenings just to cool down

popcorn at the end of a night of tag

and best of all

staying up until ten o’clock

 

It is amazing what a tree can elicit.

 

In this thin place I espy my maternal grandmother

with her red lipstick and matching nails

cooling down in her housecoat,

the fan wafting cigarette smoke to the corners of the room;

my paternal grandmother in her khaki skirt and pale skin,

heading down the block for an evening visit

bearing new paperdolls and yet  more crayons…

my rose tinted glasses color what I see taste smell remember,

I’m certain.

I cross over into that land of beyond and yet now

brushing past that rugged and sunlit tree

and in that thin place

I am in the moment

and at peace.