How Are Ya?

Unloading jugs of water

to tend my parents’ garden

GoooOOOD MORNing!

It’s a BEEooOOootiful day

in Canterbury! (If there was

a shade out in this garden,

I would snap it up to let

the sun in, like my mom

did every school day.) 

I nod toward the Smith’s,

Sewell and Norma, and marvel

anew at their devotion. (Sewell

always helped Norma with meals

and other simple tasks of love

that a stroke left her unable to do.)

I putter and mutter, sharing town

news and gossip, while sneaking

some water onto Mr. Fife’s wilting

petunias (or is it Fifield? There are

so many of each in this neighborhood,

I can never keep them straight.)

Sending a smile to baby Corinne and

her beloved Winnie the Pooh, I pull

the toy trucks out of the weeds for

6-year-old Maxwell. (Silly, the pickup

has lost its back tire AGAIN.)

Then there’s Marge. At 101, deafness left

her voice high and cracked, but strong

nonetheless. We share a birthday!

She was amazed when we did the math...

(How come I never realized I was born

exactly 9 months after Valentine’s Day?

It’s indecent! Scandalous!)

My water jugs are empty. I gather

the clippings and withered blooms.

Pack the car. Blow kisses.

Toot the horn and drive...slowly...

out of the cemetery gates.