Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter

Friday, February 11, 2005

Hot Pavement

The purple flowers on vines
my mother called "clematis"
twisted and followed their
path up a trellis to the
right of our front door.
On the other side,
almost hidden by them
every spring, a blue
evergreen offered home
to a nest of baby robins.
I never knew how many times
she plotted rescue from
the living room window -
I've lost count of those
sudden dashes out the door,
kitchen broom in hand
ready to shoo away the
"mean old neighbor cat"
who always came to play
with her first symbols
of spring.
I lost count.
All I chose to remember
are the endless warm days
stretching into each other
when my feet itched to
find the freedom of cool
lawns, hot pavement,
with those invariable
bloody big toe mishaps;
skin flapping as I was
forced to walk slower,
then re-enter the house:
Normal step, heel, step,
heel - try not to dirty
the floor on the way to
the bathroom medicine
cabinet holding that
trusty box of Band-Aids.
Ask myself, "One? Two is better."
I'm satisfied with a job well done,
dash back to some glorious day
again to the freedom of
sprinkler-wet grass between toes
and at dusk
with my father's warning,
"Chigger bites in the grass,
don't sit there" fading fast
im my ears, I'm off to find
a suitable container for
those strange flying things
that flicker in the air
at eye level.

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