I want to give you something that belonged to me,
the crabapple tree perfect for climbing,
rocky-bottomed lake with surprises of minnows,
the hill I spread my towel on
to find the cloud animals.
I want to drive the old dirt roads with you,
sing Greensleeves and the Eriskay Love Lilt.
I want you to get on my blue three-speed
and ride all the way to the Coke plant
so the man can hand you a bottle
through the factory window.
There are no errands you can do for me,
no stores nearby,
the neighbourhood children all busy and away,
even though it’s summer
and anyway it’s not safe,
no sidewalks,
and the cars all go too fast.
Last Friday, we made a challah bread together,
you kneading and braiding;
it baked into such a golden beauty.
You chose music that you know I love.
We sat in the kitchen and sang and
shelled peas until our fingers were green,
our bowls filled with green.
