The rhythm over bare feet
Was always easiest, with
My grandmother’s warm brick
Backyard underneath, as her
Black lab watches, panting,
Entertained by my efforts.
Steady hopping, as the speed
Increases as I remember how
Easy this was when I was smaller,
How nothing mattered save for how
I could perfect a trick while blowing
Green apple bubble gum.
Breath housed in the brown frame warm,
Ragged, stomach reminding me
It’s time for lunch.
Leaving the world of the 7-year-old,
Morphing into a woman, charged with
Grieving what time has made His own,
Reclaimed until the utter day of redemption
Of man.
There is no grandma to make rice,
No more dogs I roughed and tumbled with
No more cousins to chase,
No more balls to catch.
My favorite toy put away into
A backpack next to a bag familiar,
Similar to my mothers.
Instead to pink sneakers,
There are black ballet slippers,
A nod to the 7-year-old who loved
To dance.
As I look for keys, I heard my father’s voice
And remember, there is no Daddy to take me home.
–Jennifer Bush (Harris), May 2011-personal canon/ English 3030
