A Princess Grows Up Redux
Though you don't know it, I still keep your old tools in the shed, the ones that remind me of cabinets, and rockers, and long afternoons smelling wood shavings as they hit the floor. The last time I saw you, I was washing socks, watching the loamy silt from the garden make its way to the bottom of the bucket. You had packed an old suitcase, though I didn't know it; filled it with Mike's baseball glove, and tattered blue shirts that smelled just like you, maybe some underwear if you were smart. You hid it behind the shed.
I had cried my last tears, or so I thought. Mike had been under ground for a year or so, and summer was stinging its way through what turned out to be a good bye. I picked up your note. Held it out far enough to read your cramped hand. You were going to pick up some flour at the store for pie. Just flour.
By the time I figured out you had gone, pie was the last thing on my mind. But I ended up baking one anyway. Maybe to celebrate the time we had or maybe to say goodbye in my own way. Then I picked up a broom and started sweeping old shavings away. But I keep the tools. Maybe you'll come back.
copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2019
Inspired by A Princess Grows Up
Posted for Poets United