memories Archives · Blue Fern Press

Growing Up

The chest was too tall. The top drawer was Ada’s. When Ada left home, Bea climbed up to open it. She found Ada had left her a lilac sachet.

They thought it was the paper they missed, lined paper, onion skin, reams of bond, pages of books. No one even remembered the smell of ink.

A young couple stops at the corner, gazing at the San Francisco skyline. Ellen and Bill kissed at that corner. This couple snaps a picture.

The backyards all ran together. The boxy little record player spun 45’s. We danced galloping polkas, and our Moms weren’t afraid of the sun.

Chestnut petals drifted like snow. Parisian parakeets sat outside in brass cages. Because the two were together, they know that this was so.

A mature gingko grew golden outside her classroom. The crone told us its resurrection tale. Today a young gingko is greening, and I see her.

Vic wore black shoes. Kay wore white gloves. He was told to extend his hand. She was told to take it. That was 1964. They’re still waltzing.

Em owns a vintage Mustang. She bought it in ’67. Em’s good at keeping things. Al isn’t. He left Em in ’82. He regrets it. He loved that car.