Always somewhere at the periphery,
Looking over the precipice,
Keeping an eye on us, on someone.
A towel, the scent of dove soap;
Wooden walls and the plates with boats on them,
The glasses of Coca-Cola – ice – comfort.
Apples being picked up off the ground,
Too sour to eat, only suitable for pie, for jam.
Something to eat – something to do.
A barn on a wall, a table with screaming adults,
A black stove that was never used, above it a beehive.
The videos and birthdays. The cake with ice cream.
The pain of a fight, scratched knees,
The feeling of being held,
Engulfed in something unconditional.
Playing outside, I walk up to her,
I ask for another grilled-cheese sandwich,
Knowing I don’t have to ask.
It will be… everything will be offered up.
written May 2016
