Memories of Green
· The Atlantic
I was as vapour in the blue airs of summer and knew no bounds.
— Simone de Beauvoir
Come outside, he told us, as we looked up from our play.
We set down all our G.I. Joes and the assorted dolls
to see the fruits of labor that he’d planted back in May.
Children listen dutifully when Granddaddy calls.
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We passed the porch and fence where wild honeysuckles grew
and never got too close, as you’d be worse with just a lick,
to grandma’s elephant ears, pillows for drops of morning dew—
we heard that just a few could cure a cold when you were sick.
I saw lambent light within his eye. We stepped upon the grass:
Just past the pack of chickweed that my sister said were greens,
(it’s funny how those memories are gilded in their cast),
Granddaddy saw his life and told us what it really means.
His hands held the cucumbers: There were two that he would pick.
We leaned in close to get a look: so long and green and thick.