The past is never dead, it is not even past.  ~William Faulkner

In a waiting room, leafing through
National Geographic, I find pages
of them tumbling across landscapes,
accumulating along fence lines,
even gathered together
into a makeshift Christmas tree
spray painted white and lit up
against the desert sky.
Seeing them puts me back
on the bus of childhood,
jealous of a weed.
 
I can see it, feel it even,
in a sunny corner
of my mind where it has stayed
dry as bone but intact.
Pam Miller holds it on her lap
on the way to first grade
show-and-tell the first week of school,
a souvenir brought home
all the way to New Jersey
in the backseat of a Buick,
a small thorny indulgence.
Pam was an only child,
car trips with my family
were crowded and shorter,
space at a premium
unavailable to weeds.
I wanted to hold it
on the bus too but
Pam wouldn’t let me.
Arizona seemed exotic,
unreachable, exciting
and my curious envy
of a lonely little girl
clutching a tiny tumbleweed
remains long after
I’ve traveled far beyond it.

This poem first appeared in Exit 13 (May, 2015).
Used here with the author’s permission.