I cross the miles holding
on to memories:
my children’s first steps,
their first days at school,
romping in piles
of orange and gold leaves.
The neighborhood movie house,
where Rocky played
for six months.
It was something I could rely on
when I looked up at the marquee.
The drugstore where my kids
brought their piggy banks;
the clerk counting out
pennies to buy me perfume.
Chatting over the backyard fence,
as we hung clothes on our lines.
Margaret always washed
on Mondays, shopped on Thursdays;
Vivian walked to the market at noon.
I arrive in the new land
of smog-filled haze
and star-like cacti,
I am on another planet.
I long to see the familiar landscape
of windswept leaves
resting against
the sagging redwood fence.
© by Barbara Eknoian.
Used with the author’s permission.
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