Posted in Memoir, Photography, Poetry

Walking to the store

The picture
surfaces oddly
the sands of time
worn away.
needing resolution
childhood fantasy
the balm applied.
Scraped knees
and tattered jeans
romping, careening
through fields of hay.
We were
mommas, they
worried having
been gone so long.
Quick trips
to Piggly Wiggly
a pack of gum
stowed away.


Those are my momma’s shoes so I know this is the door to my house. I am the girl with the short hair cut, my momma struggled. Why? Was it her or I? She always said an older lady should never have long hair. In the third grade it was the “Dorothy Hamill” look. It was not until high school that I actually had beautiful flowing locks. On my own I became me.

I have stowed this picture away so many times. I finally succumbed, have it directly posted in front of my computer, and relish my smile, the high five, and the master plans we secretly plotted. I have written four poems now. The memories haunt me and I just wrote the above, after a happy nappy, waking up to the words, as an alarm tells you to get it done. Finish and heal and move on. The poem does not haunt as it once had. It does carry so much emotion and there are plenty more poems waiting in the wings.

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