childhood

Summer Reminds Me. . .

Just yesterday evening, I went to the new garden center that has recently been built not far from my house. If there is a garden center somewhere, be assured that I will go to it, and often.

Well, as I was browsing the plants, flowers, trees, planters, and seed packets, a packet with bright orange zinnias caught my attention. At that moment, I was transported back to a childhood memory of me and my daddy scattering zinnia seeds all over our front yard. The sunlight sparkled through the dense cedar trees at the edge of our yard, the stone path that circled around our front yard looked cool and ancient.

For a brief moment yesterday, my memory took me back to the mid-1960s when I was a child and all the world was safe and the summers burst forth in a kaleidoscope of brightly colored flowers, among them zinnias. Daddy still smiles at me down the passages of time, through the decades that have come and gone, and took him from me. He still is rooted deeply in my memory like a warrior spirit, always strong, always my protector. He exists forever, his hand cupping mine, pouring zinnia seeds into my waiting child-size palms. Those summer memories of my little finger digging into the deep, dark Georgia soil and dropping a zinnia seed into it has sustained me through the passing years.

Zinnias bursting forth in a colorful carpet across my yard remind me of love, of the absolute impact a father’s support and guidance has on a child. No matter what has ever happened in my life, the memory of my daddy encouraging me to plant those seeds in any way I wanted to, to think for myself, to decide what I should do, has sustained me. In planting those zinnias, he planted the seeds of confidence and self-worth inside his daughter’s soul. He told me to never let anyone tell me how to think, or what to think. He told me I am the decider; I am in control of my decisions. His words, like flowers, have taken root inside my heart and soul.

Yesterday, I planted my zinnias. Yesterday, I was reminded of the absolute importance of a strong, supportive father. Of course, he was not perfect; nobody is perfect. We all have flaws. But, in that memory from so very long ago, I remember him as perfect and that day as perfect.

Because at the moment in time, he was perfect.

And, that day was perfect. . .

Hydrangeas: A Poem

Delicate deep blue petals spill onto the rain-drenched ground.

Little white clapboard house squeezed between two other little white clapboard houses, like life left to gasp at its final defeat.

Nothing ever blossomed there,

except those deep blue hydrangeas Mama grew beneath the black wrought iron banister next to the front steps leading out.

Railroad track across the dirt road, I thought of it as a potential exit strategy in the event that the inevitable occurred.

In front of our little white clapboard house, that railroad track laid itself out among tangled weeds, and escaped hydrangea petals.

brown wooden armchair on brown wooden floor — Photo by Marcelo Jaboo on Pexels.com

CHILDHOOD

Chair in the corner of the dining room,

and Daddy sitting in it, and only the orange glow from the ashes,

and gray puffs of smoke,

gave any signal of human presence.

Otherwise it was just the darkness and a chair in the corner,

otherwise it was just daddy in the dark and all alone.

I watched the firelight from the cigarette, as a child,

and wondered why the night was so black,

and why Daddy was so alone, and why voices rang out in the night.

I thought of Mama in the next room sleeping,

and I wondered why I was so small, and why Mama and Daddy never laughed.

And I felt like the night, cold,

and like Daddy,

and like Mama.

so all alone.

My poetry book “Life at the End of the Rainbow” is currently available at Amazon/Kindle. I would love to hear any feedback about my poetry. Thanks.

-Jenny