Through the Seasons

I always try to time it perfectly.

A quick peek out the window

tells me we haven’t missed our moment.

—

I wrap you in my dressing gown

cheek pressed to mine

our own little cocoon

against winter’s icy chill.

—

We hear a rumble in the distance.

You look up excitedly,

it’s coming soon.

—

Then it appears,

the garbage truck

roars down the street.

He approaches,

rolls down his window,

waves hello.

—

It might be a simple occasion,

yet we can always rely

on our garbage truck to return.

A ritual we look forward to,

through our quiet weeks.

Each small flash adds

to our treasure of memories.

—

Moments dissolve.

—

You’re walking now,

standing next to me proudly

in the flowery spring air,

the rumble returns,

you quickly reach for me,

to pick you up,

to keep you safe.

With a smile and a wave,

you greet him as he passes by.

—

Clock hands race.

—

You're in shorts and sandals,

running around the yard,

exploring while we wait.

When we hear the rumble in the air again,

you tell me we have to “stand back.”

Holding your ground, you wave and smile.

—

Daycare drop-offs have begun.

We still find time to fit

the garbage truck into our

morning routine.

—

As the leaves fall from the trees,

the driver

rolls down his window,

holds out a box.

We reach inside and grab

an Easter egg.

—

This morning, the air was sharp again.

You raced out in bare feet.

I remind myself

to make sure you wear shoes

when the garbage truck

returns again.