I Remember Something Pure

In a violet dress

peppered with daisies,

I dangle my bare, dirt-stained toes

over our unfinished porch.

We had hotdogs with

mac and cheese for supper—

I listen as Dad scrapes away

at the char on the grill,

and dishes clatter in the kitchen sink,

Mom humming to the radio.

Flowery soaps perfume the air

and waft through the window,

I can picture the bubbly

orangey nectar of the suds

cascade over the plates and plastic cups,

mine covered in dinosaurs.

Freshly picked flowers

float lazily in a vase on the sill above the sink,

pollen-dusted tulips, daffodils and irises,

plucked from Mom's garden.

My sister is on the swing set,

kicking her feet, trying to take flight,

and my brother giggles, struggling to push her,

still a wobbly toddler.

The grass is freshly mowed,

the trimmings strewn across the yard,

I proudly pat my bouquet of dandelions beside me,

saved from the metal reaper.

It is not quite summer,

but no longer spring.

Everything is green, lush,

blooming and clean.

We fished for newts and tadpoles

in the heat of the afternoon,

lulled by the sizzle of Sun on the pond water

and the hum of cicadas in the oaks.

Now, we waited for popsicles,

and watched the sky shift

from bright blue to

gentle lavender.

The clinking of beer bottles

echoes from the cooler

as Dad pops off the bottle cap

and it skips across the floorboards.

Mom emerges from the house,

cool air pouring out onto the Sun-bleached porch,

as she carries a welcome rainbow array of popsicles

and a tin of fresh chocolate chip cookies.

There are no plans, no rush,

no expectations, no worries,

though my siblings join us

on the porch in a hurry.

As melting sherbet drips from chins

and talks of sprinkler runs commence,

the kiddie pool glistens

and our quiet backyard satisfies every sense,

I feel a happiness inside

many struggle to find—

it is a happiness I feel

I might chase for a lifetime.