It was a visit to the old neighborhood
a drive by the house where I was born.
Memories flashed like heat lightning
single frame home movies, one by one:

Daddy long leg webs on the window
spider's graceful march along my arm
the cicada song announcing afternoon heat
a step onto a bee in the front-yard clover

ice pops dripping red on a lucky day
Jersey tomatoes on white bread thick with mayo
our lemonade stand sticky with spilled sugar
dinner with butter-covered corn from Henry's farm

catching pollywogs from the pond in the woods
lying on the soft backyard grass to watch
animal clouds form in the summer sky
folding daisy stems to make crowns for our hair

rainy day hours spent with coloring books
sunny day bike rides, hopscotch and jump rope
afternoons reading Nancy Drew mysteries
Parcheesi and Canasta in the shade--

With even the few improvements
the neighborhood houses look the same
but the streets have changed, empty of children.
Like me, that play, is gone.

© by Tere Sievers.
Used with the author’s permission.