Old country new ride. This man?
Who is this Me?
Mom hinted one week before leaving.
Can’t come back.
Freshened earth wafts up old summer messages through the open window.
Cage of age taunts the young-time-ago.
How many childhoods?
Can’t go back.
His working hands and sweet tea. Yeah
Predictions were correct. Dammit.
Remember the ride.
After breakfast he hiked his pjs, pulled open the door and stepped into a world fresh with yellow blaze. I followed his lead into the Technicolor surprise and gathered flower heads for salve as hungry bumble bees lobbed to and from their post in the garage wall nearby.
“Noni, lets take a closer look”, he said peering his picked bunch.
The morning commune with dandelions turned into flowers for mom, blowing seeds, tasting leaves and collaborative art, titled “The Wind Loves its Wish”.
I couldn’t wish for a better spring morning with my grandson.