When my grandpa died, soon after my grandma,
I drove up north with my husband,
Thinking about an ice cream shop
Where children sat and ordered real sodas
That melted sticky sickly-sweet with ice cream.
Of antique shops with names like Carousel,
Matched by charming interiors.
Or the flea market
Only open on weekends,
But I had all the days in the world it seemed,
Once the restless hot hours of summers were here.
As I walked by the cows
Soft and staring in their pastures,
As I blessed every wildflower and weed
While listening to the gospel, as told by singing insects,
I knew it would end, but we lie to ourselves in a thousand ways.
The winding road to the farm is a path no longer open,
And my grandparents are together, but away from my touch,
The days of drawing thoughts on loose printer paper
While they went about their day in the next room are over.
The games of Yahtzee have been tallied,
And I couldn’t tell you who won, in the end.
The antique stores I knew are ten years gone,
But maybe things were drifting away long before,
And no one wanted to talk about the end of summer when
The sun is still in your eyes and the days hang warm and lazy
Over the coming sunsets.
But I remember,
The storms rolling free and fierce over that wide swath of sky,
The comforting smell of bar soap on flannel shirts,
The kisses on my cheek that left a lipstick mark,
That breakfast is the best meal of the day, and therefore most important,
When it’s made by those who love you completely.
– Sara Myriad