…and we each took a pear
and ate, and were grateful —Jane Kenyon
The first load’s already washing, a suitcase-full,
its swish-bump, swish-bump muffled as I
unlock the door to the deck. You’ve gone for
takeout and tomorrow morning’s milk. Our
cats seem to miss the sitter; the elder, the tom,
follows me out, but ducks and slithers inside
when I try to pet him. The garden’s overrun
with basil and bell peppers. I settle in the musty
outdoor couch to watch our woods, and the air,
dim and purple, falls asleep on my shoulder.
We’re here, but not quite home yet. It’s almost
too dark to see you walk across the yard with
a white pizza box luminous in the dusk, on this
last night of our first vacation since my parents
are both dead. There’s no one to call, no smile
at the tangled jewel box of my mother’s memory,
no visit to half-dread in the morning. Our house
is a little too tidy. Suppose it hasn’t come back
to us yet! Look at this place! you say. If we’d
rented it for two weeks, we’d feel so lucky.
And isn’t that the real reason people go away?
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 26, Issue 3.
Christine Potter lives with her patient husband and two spoiled cats in the Hudson River Valley. Her poetry has been in Rattle, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, The McNeese Review, Does It Have Pockets, Thimble, Consequence, and on ABC Radio News. Her time-traveling YA series, The Bean Books, is published by Evernight Teen. Her latest poetry collection, Unforgetting, is on Kelsay Books.
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