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Homemade
Memory Soup
by B.A.
Pierce & J.A. Willson
Stirring
the memory like a pot of soup on the stove
I drove
Through the deserted streets of my childhood.
Bubbling up unbidden
Like steam rising
They came trooping out.
Playmates,
classmates, neighborhood kids,
In their tattered play clothes,
Barefoot
Hopping up and down trying to avoid the hot sand
Of a West Texas summer.
Sidewalks
ablaze with heat.
"Hot enough to fry an egg," Dad said,
Just home from the oil fields
Mopping his brow
While sweat ran down from his head.
Mom
sticking her head out to yell,
"Supper's ready! Come home! Come home!"
Turning away,
Wanting to play
Ignoring the summons.
Never
dreaming the day would come
When I would long to be called
In
to dinner
With daddy, mother,
Sister,
And brother.
Too late now.
Gone.
Playmates,
too.
Gone to early graves
Or
Turned to old men and old women
With gray hair and aches and pains
Creaking joints.
Sighs and groans.
But for a
moment,
Just for a moment
As I sift through the boneyard of summers past,
I stir memories
In the ghost town of my heart,
And I see that girl of ten
Again
Sitting in a tree.
Playing
Cowboys and Indians,
Or Tarzan and Jane.
And I smile
In the secret corners of my mind
The images twirl and swirl
Round and round.
And they are all there again
The family and friends
My childhood
Gone,
But never lost,
Always in my mind and heart
While I wait my turn
to be called.
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