What Still Lives
I always slept with my head at the foot of the bed because that's where the open window was. A hot breeze in summer with Grandma's large rotary fan facing outward at the porch door. The sleeping porch, upstairs, in the old house where we all lived. Better in rain, my face wet. Better still in winter, my face cold. Window cracked, covers bunched. Comfort every night; every night content. What can you hold from your childhood? Who were you then? Think it, write it, believe it. It still lives.
Did you play outdoors? Did the dog follow you to the creek? I could hang by my knees upside down from a bar and swing. Climb the ladder on the home-made swing set and sing show tunes to confound the neighbors. Make my way down a hill covered with cacti for no reason. Dress like a cow girl in rawhide vest and boots. Climb trees. Oh how we love to climb trees. Do you hold memories dear? Remember them, write them, believe them. They still live.
Live a large life. Live a small life. Who can tell the difference? It's your life. Live in one town in one house on one street or one apartment in one building on one block or one old house that your father cannot repair for love or money. Live with grandmas or parents or brothers or pets or anyone who shows you love. Loud homes or quiet, books or no books, trees or sidewalks, fried bologna or fresh fish. You still live.
N.N.
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