On a Friday evening in August
we walked to the garden in Grandma’s back yard.
The children were treated to fresh tomatoes,
wrapped in waxed paper, salted by the shaker from the kitchen.
Looking forward to walking to the near-by creek
where they caught frogs, put them in Mason jars,
covered the jars with lids, punched holes on top.
What is the family mystery beloved because it takes
place at Grandma’s house, and happens on a steam filled evening.
Fruit, vegetables, jars of tomatoes, children using elbows to
get closer to frogs from the creek.
Is this memory a true one or a wish made when we are too old for mystery
involving the field, sunshine, Mason jars, laughter without cares?
The edge of this mystery is a darker recollection of loss, the hidden
story unrevealed that blocks the mystery we use poetry to disguise.
For me, the heart of your poem came with these words:
Is this memory a true one or a wish made when we are too old for mystery
involving the field, sunshine, Mason jars, laughter without cares?
You create a bright, nostalgic feel in the spaces above, and I myself longed to be part of that family on such a sunny day. When I reread it, I reflected on my own “brightened memories” realizing that I was not dismissing the pain but instead focusing on the happier times. Perhaps that is part of the human condition. Upon that second reading and then again with the third, your final lines became all the more poignant:
The edge of this mystery is a darker recollection of loss, the hidden
story unrevealed that blocks the mystery we use poetry to disguise.
Perhaps this could be the first poem in a series about childhood. Perhaps it could be a closing. I personally would enjoy reading more, whether you write poetry or prose. You are a fine writer.