even now
years later as i
walk through the garden,
i hear those songs we used to
sing, the large stones
protecting my calloused feet,
the dying oak tree
like i was then,
broken and proud.
i trace what we’ve grown
with my fingers:
the purple pansies, my mother
delicate, resilient
the fern, my only brother
weathered and stern,
my father
the weeping willow,
all my sorrows in
his branches.
inside, a man waits for me.
he has strong arms and
a quiet laugh. he is stirring
something on the stove
and he looks up at me
and smiles.
i am barefoot and awake,
for the first time.
i dip a toe into the
cool pond we dug that summer.
i sense the darkness beneath my feet
and feel it waiting to
swallow me,
the familiarity
calling.
the years in silence.
the guilt.
the darkest hour that’s
just before dawn.
i pull back.
tea’s ready,
he calls through the
half-open window.
i step forward, inside.
i take one last look,
away.
i drink my fill.
