On My Father’s Grapevines

I want to run around that yard,
batting my hands against my father’s grapevines,
stomping through his garden,
my hands sticky with blackberries.

I want to see the bricked patio behind my room,
where I kicked and punched with glee
after the cheesy karate movie
we went to go see.

I want to stand in the spot where the bee stung,
and I want to sneak past the corner with the dead bird,
avoiding the hole where dad fell during kickball,
and we went running for mom.

And I don’t want to go next door, and
I don’t want to see the backyard with the beast,
the loud dog the bit me and gave me this scar.
I don’t need to go there.

And maybe Snowball the cat’s ghost still purrs,
stalking the backyard where I played ping pong,
and where I tossed a ball through a window,
and where I kept a turtle in the garage.

I know the yard is still there, and maybe
lots of other little boys have played there,
and maybe they’ve laughed and cried,
and shot arrows at their bratty little sister too.

I know it would seem so small to me now,
so miniature compared to the place in my mind,
but I still want to run around that yard,
my hands sticky with blackberries.

 

2 thoughts on “On My Father’s Grapevines

  1. I too would love to return to the childhood of my memories; just only the way I want to remember it, though.

    Sent from my iPhone

    >

    Like

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