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.
