Sometimes I visit them
I walk down the sidewalk cracked by roots claiming
victory over stones
Beside the tall hedges I nip little red bombs of sweet
tart cherries
Popping them in my mouth
Juice escaping down my chin
Wiping it away but not before it spells out welcome in
rubies across my chest
Crunching of the pebble driveway drums my arrival
As the great fichus tree heavy with Stag horn fern
Cover me with shade, bringing a cool breath to meet me
Rose vines grow twisting in and out of the intricately
woven strips of painted wood
Arching to join from east and west, north and south
Fragrant blossoms opening while birds dance and sing on
the edge of the cement pond
Made just for them
As my foot touches down onto the porch, the breeze catches
his big rocker
It gives a low moan and sways ever so slightly
The little wagon that he painted gold for me lay still in
its place next to his chair
Pillow still ready to soften the chariot ride
Red was her color gold was mine
Creaking open the screen door
Smells of the tongue and groove oak walls
Each panel cut by him and place side by side, fill me
Too beautiful for paint he said
It would-hide the fragrance of the wood
I step past the parlor; parlors are for salesman and
preachers she said
Family gather in the kitchen at the big red table he
built just for her
Beside the table is where my throne waits
A strong wooden chair with arms that wrap around you like
her arms do
Soft red seat cushions much like her lap where I spent my
early years
In her lap, in her arms, in my chair, I was safe
Red is her color
She is in the kitchen pouring my tea in the Kool-Aid man
mug she bought when I was 5.
Chicken and dumplings are bubbling on the stove
She wipes her hands on the tea towel over her shoulder
She turns to me and smiles and I am home
Her red and white checked kitchen walls, my fortress
The chair with red cushions, my throne
My Kool-Aid mug, my chalice
Her tea towel, my blankie of comfort
Her heart, my heart
He comes in bringing bounty from his garden
Fat red tomatoes that will be squashed between two slices
of white bread
With plenty of Miracle Whip for his lunch box tomorrow
Baskets of Lady finger Bananas, short and sweet like me
he said
Wrapping me in the heavy quilts of his arms
Just long enough to take in his aroma of sawdust and
cigarettes he hid in the shed
Checkers, Rummy, or building houses from the decks of
cards
He is my teacher
Strategy, honesty, acceptance, perseverance, patience,
trust
Trust that his words are true
Trust that his hands are gentle
Trust that he will always have time for me
Even though I not be blood of his blood
His heart is my heart
Feasting on bowls of chicken and dumplings
Until all that is left is the pattern of blue willow
china
Sharing everything we are with words spoken or not
She busies her hands folding and refolding linen napkins
with origami precision
Never rushing our time, she sits by the window
Willing the sun to stay up as we linger sipping iced tea
It is their approval I crave
It compels me to be better
It is their love that I have
It flows through my veins and is what I breathe
Unconditional, never faltering, freely given
Sometimes I visit them
I visit them not in the place we once called home
Long has it been replaced by a bigger but ordinary house
The garden now lies dormant under a two-car garage
And strangers sleep in the place where once the great
tree grew
I visit them not in the place where they now lay
In the shade of a new tree dressed in ribbons of Spanish
moss
Where never ending blooms of roses are carved in stone
I visit them in the dreams too sweet to wake from
Where the little house he built still stands in the shade
of the great tree
And chicken and dumplings bubble on the stove as she
washes dishes
Wearing her red apron
Red is her color
Sometimes I visit them
