Arkansas Dirt

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.