october 13, 2021

I arrive to see seven turkey vultures scouring.
Grandpa says,
we fed them mashed potatoes and gravy.
Grandma says,
a nurse is coming to change the pump that heals my wound.

Grandpa says,
wear a hard hat just in case they fall from the trees—
they might decapitate you.
We are picking up walnuts.
Grandma pushes the car alarm button
when she needs Grandpa’s attention.

Raking past the phantom shade of the tree for swinging that occupied my early afternoons.
Over the cement patch that used to have a picnic table
where we had my fourth birthday, the one where I got two upside down barbies.
Peering into the barn door ajar
holding many projects, a pattern I reflect.
Throughout the sprawling grass that lit me up when I learned it was a Sunday or Thursday cut out for the outdoor edition of chit chat.
Past the wall of the bathroom where my amniotic fluid stains the carpet.
Next to the driveway where we rode our second or thirdhand bikes.
Near where they hung a hoop for my third grade basketball phase that was taken down when I quit.
Behind the faux wall of the barn
a hidden place that was my muse when I learned to use a camera.
By the garage that holds the abundance of antique show heirlooms that we haven’t toured in—how long?
Up the sidewalk incline we have lingered upon
as several goodbyes are needed for one exit.

I never used to see walnuts this way
and I never thought I’d see so much change.
I’ve got a new hobby
and Grandpa needs to mow the grass.