L'aura del Campo

Down the old gravel road

Down the old gravel road

There was a house where my uncle lived,
where my grandmother before him took in my mother,
12 and homeless, her father having lost it all,
ill with carbuncles, her mother coping, her sister
taking on the chores of raising the kids,
until they all left, fled, until she too
found a way out. Years later, my mother followed.
And there-in lies the tale, truth or not,
my grandparents' white house sitting on the hillside,
my uncle still around the corner, the lilacs,
the hollyhocks, the garden under the willow,
the red cardinal flying overhead,
my grandfather's bird, while we picked
orange nasturtiums planted in white painted tires,
to give to my grandmother, maker of bread,
maker of split-pea soup. My parents are part
of this too, but I can't remember. It was summer,
I slept in the cool basement, I used
the porcelain pot to pee, too young to climb
the red sidewalk at night, to find
the two-seated outhouse in the dark.

© Kåre Enga [19.January.2017]