Spring means the wlllows in the park are
starting to weep. I stop
and look up and let nostalgia settle on me.
I remember things.
I remember reading my mom to sleep at night.
Wednesdays we ate pork chops and au gratin potatoes.
Summer trips to the lake, we’d stay in a little cabin
on the shore of some giant lake and my dad would
show me how to find animal shapes in the passing clouds.
I remember running home from school in the rain,
drinking straight from the spigot
and stealing rhubarb from the neighbor’s garden.
I remember coming home crying
after spending hours looking for my lost cat.
And how my mom stood in the doorway laughing
because the cat was following behind me.
I remember banana seats and metal lunchboxes
and a hand-knitted yellow vest with a huge ladybug on the front.
I remember sneaking marshmallows from the pantry and
brandy slushes from the freezer.
I remember standing in the backyard, arms outstretched
waiting for birds to come land on me and tell me
the secret to flying.
I remember twirling under the long feathery branches of a willow tree.
Copyright Cynthia Berg 2017