366 Days: Still Here, Still Writing

Childhood, 1934

Do you remember our childhood?

There was the empty schoolyard.

There was a gnarled dogwood tree, white blossoms,

smell of brushfires scenting the air.

It was hot that summer,

sweltering, you bent before me

writing secrets on the dusty ground.

Late evenings cooled off.

Daddy brought us ice chips

and laughed at the chickens, clucking and pecking.

Yes! How could I forget this? Yes!

We were girls together.

Dripping beads of water, tasting dust.

We saw the sun going down. Going down.

Watching our mother’s back

as she waltzed away.

Forgive her.

Forgive us.