Empty Nests
Empty Nests
Tell me we'll be ten forever
and I'll ride my scooter to your house
every day, and never learn
not to trip over the crack on your driveway.
painting my nails every afternoon in your sunroom,
the passage of time marked
only by the whir of the ceiling fan and the drying
of ocean-blue thumbs.
boyfriends will stay an abstract concept
but we are certain
we will babysit each other's kids,
rock together on porches,
pin a million recipes on your fridge.
But now I walk down Duke Drive
underneath the burning red leaves
and as I pass your house
the second-story window is devoid of your shadow.
I hand off kale to your mom
instead of giving it straight to you after lunch and
missing you grows in the garden too
like the tomato vines creeping up the fence,
like my lungs pushing out the end of a dusty summer,
taking in clean air.
The Voice
July 2024
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