memories

For Poetry Friday, here's a Thanksgiving poem written by our daughter Jen when she was a teen. In the photo, her Nana prepares Thanksgiving dinner. Tabatha hosts the Roundup today at The Opposite of Indifference

Memories

It’s a good feeling
To see this house
And know that inside waits
Pumpkin chiffon
And other goodies like
Cashews and cranberry sauce
And afterwards
The rope swing under the willow tree
Coaxing Tabby out from under the
Front porch
Picking frosty wild grapes and
Spitting out the seeds
Traipsing through the tall grass
Up to the sandpit
Bringing back cups of sand
To make cakes with in the playhouse
Fingers stiff with cold
Bang into the house
Huddle in front of the woodstove and
Drink just-right cocoa with
Big fluffy marshmallows
Nana says
“Such red cheeks!”
And November wind whistles the
Thanksgiving theme song.

© Jennifer Ray Johnson
1986

memory bank

We don’t always get the chance to revisit scenes of our childhood memories. This summer I went in search of a fire pond in Lincolnville, Maine. Fifty years ago, I fell into this pond and was rescued by my uncle. I remembered that I had lost my sneaker and Uncle George dove back in to retrieve it. On one grace-filled day this September, I stood on the dock of my pond. It looked so much smaller than in my memory.

Cattails and rushes crowded the pond’s banks. Reflected pines pierced the clouds. I tried to re-capture the moment, imagining my arms and legs flailing through the lily pad stems. But Uncle George wasn’t in the rowboat about to take me for a row. Nellie wasn’t standing on the house stoop wearing her long black dress and high button shoes. I can’t go back, but the memory is a treasure in my memory bank. My mind is refreshed with details. I can see the spot more clearly and my imagination can do the rest. Fine fodder for a writer! I need to write down more memories.