Like a Norman Rockwell painting, framed within our kitchen window,
a chubby 12-year-old girl donning hazel eyes and curly hair
passes by on her way to school, scruffy dog close behind.
An old worn backpack falls from her slouched shoulders.
“I'll buy you a new one” I whisper as if only she could hear me
reminded of myself at that age and the daughter we dreamed of…
Then I shake my head back and forth, not in judgement, but disappointment,
"She never finished her homework", I say with a sigh
obvious as the textbook hiding her face and I'm tempted to yell
"Be careful, and mind the traffic!", oh Carey, you need a mom! except for a gnarled hand when it reaches for the rusty mailbox hanging by one screw to the weak, weathered frame they call a home .
Living three doors down with her grandmother who we hardly see
“Oh Carey, you need a dad!” I'm sure my husband is thinking
This morning Carey holds a bouquet of fresh lilacs picked from the Sullivan’s bush,
like purple splashed across a black and white sketch, they reached out to her I'm sure
over the wobbly fence separating, believing they belonged to her.
My mom used to wrap lilacs in paper towels, adding aluminum foil
around the stems that kept them from drooping like Carey’s are now
"It would only take me a moment", I tell my husband,
"to wrap her lilacs the way my mom always did."
“Carey does have a grandmother”, he gently reminds me.
“She needs a mom and a dad!” I cry, threatened with tears
Then suddenly, a cloud bursts over Carey’s head, rain begins to pour down,
I instinctively grab an umbrella for her and as I run out the door
I can hear through my husband’s sad but understanding laugh,
“I think it's us who need Carey!”
Honorable mention
Adding your comment:
Thank you for sharing your muse.
---Stacey
