Four years ago, Tree Guy came out to give us an estimate for gypsy moth spraying. As long as you’re here, I said, take a look at these apple trees and tell me what you think.
The two small trees were decades old. The summer cottage’s previous owners who planted them had passed on years ago, and a series of residents and renters neglected the property. …
Read the rest here, in today’s Baltimore Sun online.
I encourage you to take a look at Jackie’s poem, published on her website, Baltimore Black Woman.
Anyone who has cared for an aging parent until death will recognize the combination of grief and relief as the adult child reclaims her own life after the parent’s passing.
Explain to me how the sea
puts parentheses around the years
since my father held my waist.
We jumped the waves,
and he sang off key to me.
So much time has stacked up
but I walk along at low tide,
the water here dotted with bits of red seaweed,
feel only the water and the sand,
walk over shells of small crabs, or parts of their legs,
till the water laps up again and I see only
foam at the water’s edges.
Show me why the sea is so like
old words on the page,
why I can read and reread a poem
its meaning constant
text embedded deep in my neurons
though life whirls me
from single to married
childless to primagravida
to mother of two
to mother of two grown, off in the world.
Originally published in Poetry Pacific literary magazine