I Remember Sisters & Spring
I remember the posing tree, the one Uncle Bruce would use for staging, motioning to this side and that, chins up and smile.
I remember the accidental bursts of summer in late spring, when Mom would pull the hand-me-down clothes from the attic. How I clamored like a homesteader to try the ruffly sundress on first, staking my gingham claim.
I remember the sidewalks, the ones that scraped knees and etched grooves into the plastic of my Big Wheel.
I remember the mint growing next to the brick house, how it perfected the sun tea.
I remember the clothes line and the stiff feel of wind-blown terrycloth.
I remember the seedlings under the lights, the promise of a garden.
I remember feeling like the whole world revolved around whether we'd get a dessert--and whether it was carrot cake or brownies--or if we'd be allowed to stay up later. Just 15 minutes more?
I remember sisters and spring and climbing a tree so high that I swayed when the wind blew.
I remember wishing to be all grown up. But for the life of me, now, I can't remember why.
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