1912 O’Connell
February 15, 2012
Dear Pink House,
It’s been a long time; I hope you are well!
You may not remember me; after all,
who didn’t pick the blackberries that grew along the back fence line,
too naive even to watch for the snakes
that undoubtedly must’ve been watching out for themselves?
Who didn’t turn cartwheels in the cool dark blades of your summer grass,
lingering in the dusk for those last precious minutes
before the mother called her name?
But I wrote my name in black magic marker
on the hardwood floor of the only original bedroom,
when it was pink.
And I bet I’m the only one
who hit a frog with a stick on the narrow walk before the kitchen window,
and then cried and fretted, stomach all aknot with shame and regret.
I bet I’m the only one
who planted a sweet potato eye in the boxwood bed
and found a surprise purple blossom
on the vine.
