We spent sunny summer Saturdays in
our grandparent’s yard.
Squeezed into the swing
under the apple tree,
the magic carpet to adventures, barely
escaping monsters lurching towards
us down the dirt path.
“Geni of the magic carpet, go, go, go!”
We bridled our saw horses with jump
ropes and threw Nanny’s pillows
on for saddles. Our tents leaned against
the former chicken house or the
wooden slide we waxed with a candle to
generations ate lunch
next to the snowball bush on the board
and saw horse table. What
did we eat? All I remember is the pineapple
juice in metal cups, so cold and later
vanilla ice cream cones with
maraschino cherries on top.
Sometimes we splashed through the red and
green wadding pool.
Once Barbara said she saw Mershell,
our little dead uncle, looking out
of the upstairs window at us.
Later we squashed into the car, two
sisters and their five children,
riding singing home across town.