When we were young, two little ones at play,
our families thought that we belonged together,
so sweet, like milk and honey.
Sticks were our bows and arrows, then
Look closely. See that scar you gave me,
reminders of a rough-house game of kick-the-can.
When we played house (you acquiesced),
“That’s not a game for boys,” you said,
so I said nothing when you fed mud pies .
to my beloved, fair-haired doll.
Now, in my garden, thoughts of you swirl in the loam
—the scents of clay, the grainy texture of dank earth.
No longer play, but poignant memories tinged
with just a hint of sadness, just a hint of wondering
what might have been, had you not died so young?
I’m tripping back sixty-some years to a time when, living in a rural area, my only neighbor was a boy, a year or two my senior. We played together in the wild outdoors. He made a tomboy of me and I tried to domesticate him. I would be writing an epic poem if I tried to recount all our exploits.
I recall so well, after we had moved away, one evening during dinner (we were eating chop suey) the phone rang and I learned that my dear playmate, at the time only about 13 years old, had been crushed to death when he and a buddy had climbed a fence and tried to ride an oil well.
Please join us at dVerse Poetics where Bjorn invites us to play with words and dirt.