Brad's Shirt

It smells like the wind,

like the woods,

like the dog.

There is a hole in the front pocket,

a tear in the seam.

It used to be his shirt,

but somehow we ended up with it.

It has a little bit of mud

splattered up the back

from the bike race

through the giant puddle in the driveway.

It has shoveled snow.

It’s been caught in the rain,

faded by the sun.

it’s a good hide-and-seek partner

for the youngest one.

It is navy blue with red stripes

running vertically and horizontally.

A guard from the burrs,

from the straw she loves to play in.

It doubles as a pillow at the fair,

a cushion on the puppy’s bed.

It has fed calves,

checked traps,

fallen off the log and into the river below.

Doubling as a washrag,

it has cleaned brand new shoes

so mom doesn’t get upset. 

It is not just a piece of cloth,

it has been through almost as much as we have.

Emerald Walls

Definition: Haymow (n)-An over sized “attic” of a barn; extends from one end to the other over the cows below.

            Above ninety cows and my hardworking Dad, I feel at ease in the haymow.  Rain pelts the tin roof just inches above my head as I climb, higher, and higher.  First on a ladder, and when that cannot take me any higher, I grab the orange strings; Baler twine, holding the perfect rectangles together.  The smell of rain, dust, and hay send my sense of smell into overdrive.  At last I reach the top, and lay sprawled out on the warm alfalfa.  I run my hands over the mildew covered nuts and bolts that hold my secret world together.  When I look to the left I see the silhouette of a now closed trap door, the one I used to think helped criminals escape from the cops.  It turns out that it is really used to throw hay down in the summer.  When I look up I see the hand hewn beams, crafted by splintered hands, and above them, the tin roof dusted with dents.  At my back, my right, and as far as I can see in front of me, there are shades of green.  Some bales are the soft green of alfalfa, others the muddy green of first cutting.  I bound over to the fifteen foot ledge created by hundreds of stacked bales.  My family’s livelihood, the customer's desire.  I jump, and land in a pile of broken bales of all types.  The spray of grass, seeds, and dust I send flying is enough to send a person with allergies into a frenzy of coughs and sneezes.  I take deep breaths, wanting to savor every moment.  The smell and feel of home.        

A Laced Up Memory

By day he sells flats, pumps, sneakers, and yes, UGGs, but at night he forgets the soles of the day and focuses on the six o’clock soul.  At night he is a twenty-five year old angel with freckles and no halo.  He sings, holds her hands, and believes in her.  Her mind, clouded with Alzheimer’s, sees this volunteer as the boy from her past.  She calls him Jacob, the name of her son, the professor who always seems too busy to visit.  But the man with the shoes doesn’t mind.  He combs the wispy gray strands with the silver combs she hands to him upon arrival.  Mostly, he just listens.  She tells him about the day she forgot to take the pie out of the oven.  The day she got lost on the way to the grocery store.  She cries when she relives the day her son brought her to the Home and left her.  And she dreams about her man.  Details, outlined in charcoal, crafted with traces of her homeland.  The front porch swing the color of mist, and her second hand baby blue sundress.  Two straws in a Coke at Miller’s Store.  The nickelodeon they never actually watched.  At this, her blue eyes seem to twinkle and the creases on her face seem to evaporate as she remembers the youthful, carefree girl she always was with him.  The tear in his eye, down on one knee, the day she promised she would be his forever girl.  Tomorrow she won’t remember what she told him today, but he’ll come back again at six, comb her hair, embrace her fragile hands, and let her transport him back to Roleson Kansas, 1938.