The Writer in Me…
b.r.crandall
…remembers Milford Street, snooping through drawers
for miniature mice, squirrels, and skaters
collected by grandma, knowing a holiday branch hadn’t
fallen to the ground yet, and the bedazzlement
of silver tinsel was still to come — mirrors tucked away
in tissue paper before they’d freeze into ponds..
we learned nostalgia
through my mother’s blue eyes,
but we haven’t been back since 2017,
when we shared family history with Chitunga,
and felt the pangs of time while visiting
their camp on the reservoir.
Nikkie, my niece, married a month ago
tailing new waters up north in Altmer
where the Chinook & Coho were returning
with generational duties & traditions
(wasn’t she just trying to be Dorothy
in the Wizard of Oz?)
the writer in me will always hear the Ripleys
singing of birds & chapels, crystallizing harmony,
with my mother sitting at her childhood piano
with promises we’d never be lonely anymore.
And now it is October again. I believe
the last of the monarchs have headed home,
(where I hope to be for the holidays).
This is the writer in me…
ready for another road trip
with my mom.
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