It’s just dirt.
Just regular old Arkansas
Dirt.
But on rare visits home
I am drawn to this particular
Patch like a fish to
Water.
Their names are there,
My Mom and my Dad.
Though they are not,
I go anyway
And against all logic
I speak to them there.
Sometimes I feel like a
Little boy,
Frightened
By a nightmare, seeking comfort
At their bedside in the dark.
Other times, I am a teenager
Checking in after cruising
West Kingshighway, an evening
Spent looking for love despite
Already being loved
Deeply.
Today, I am fifty-five years old
But am channeling the teenager
Checking in.
I say,
“I’m doing good.
We are good.
And happy.”
I even employ facial expressions
To be more convincing
And don’t even feel silly.
I tell them where we live now.
I tell them about their
Granddaughters.
It is a one-sided conversation but
I sense their smiles,
And then mine.
I don’t stay long.
I never do.
I know they aren’t there,
And that it’s just Arkansas
Dirt.
But to me it is the most fertile
Soil,
And my heart grows stronger
And fuller
Every time that I go.
Starting to Look Up 