The Poem

This poem made me think of childhood summers and all the adventures and mischief kids discover on those hot lazy days. As I read on, there is another layer to this poem; a deeper, darker story. Who is the guide and where did she go?

 

The Picture

I chose to illustrate the precious childhood memory that I can visualize so easily from these words. The second layer of this story is implied by the dark shadows, although I really can’t know what the story is. I don’t need to know, but I want to.

 

Shadows

A strange empty space where a bright, smiling face once was.

Through childlike eyes, I recall it often.

A slight figure, with medusa like hair

waiting to take me by the hand

to the forbidden cache of summer bounties

our parents so carefully hid from us in the garage.

 

I was much smaller, and not as skilled as my guide,

but that was no matter,

we were united in purpose and intent.

Those succulent, red orbs.

They seemed to glow in the light of the window

as we navigated our way through the locked door,

and made our entrance

into the damp, cool space…unseen.

 

I remember the taste of joy.

Bursting with a tangy-sweet ripeness…

the refreshment of laughter,

and the smiles of approval, at the thought of our stealth

in the shadows of that garage.

As we sat, sharing our salt shaker…

ate our fill… you

read to me aloud from the side

of the countless boxes

from the Okanagan valley.

 

T o m a t o e s

 

I thought about it for many years

every time I went to market.

One day I ate tomatoes with you, and the next day you were gone

with no explanation,

and I

myself, alone,

without a guide

to help me navigate a path

to your door. Tears and questions,

loud voices in the afternoon saying,

“Bad choices”

“Never mind, you don’t need to know”

all the while

I wanted to.

 

All my life

I’ve stumbled over not knowing her.

 

Now,

as we steal the key to that old garage

and make our way through the door

together, I am thankful for the light.

A certain Phosphorescence

drawing us

to understanding

as the years

pass.

 

By: Sue Michaud

 

“Tomato Thieves” By: Sylvia Arthur