I'm sitting on the
porch, mayflies are buzzing
Lemonade is
cold, but
sweat is pouring.
MaMa calls, and I lay back on the cool concrete
Pretending not to
hear.
Eventually, I am lured inside
The promise of cold
fried chicken
More than even
I can withstand.
It's better than I anticipated.
In the cool, dark
kitchen, after everyone is gone
I sit and listen for the
cricket's song
And when the chorus begins, I return to the
porch,
And wait for the call to once again, return inside.
MaMa is gone now, and the porch stained and cracked
The
wisteria and
begonias have ceased to be bushes
And have become, instead,
prisons of
vines,
Encasing the porch and the house in bars of leaves and
blooms.
I still go there, even if it's only in my
dreams.
I'm welcomed by the
sound of the crickets,
the smell of the bougainvillea
And the distant laugh of my
grandmother playing cards in the house.
Especially in the heat of the
summer.
For deep thought, because he once told me grab my hand…