There’s nothing to do here
I told my aunt
dark curls framed her gentle face
she smiled and walked
me out the front door
find something she said

I sighed
bare feet padded
warped plank porch
down wooden steps
into clear mountain air

I wandered
up curving road side
to weathered gray barn
opened creaking hinged door
cows inside lined up for milking
moist nostrils sniffed my entrance
tails snapped flies
I scooped oats
from the rough hewn bin
onto their hay

I left the barn
squinted my eyes from the morning sun
crossed the road up the steep hill
to the Indian cemetery
ridgetop trees shaded
my images of Native Americans
dressed for war
or the hunt
ceremonies rituals
filled my eyes and heart

Now down the road
I passed the house
no one outside
but the brown and yellow chickens
searching for food in the green grass
the striped awning’s scallops
rose in the breeze

To the creek under the old concrete bridge
I looked for small silvery fish
lifted limestone rocks
kept fingers and toes on alert for crawdads
batted mud dobbers’ stings
pushed hair behind ears
scaled the wet grassy bank
pulled white daisies from stems
walked down straight corn rows looking for flint
returned to her whitewashed house
for a homemade lunch
and a firm hug

Now my aunt lives in a home
residents wander halls
and into rooms
walk to lunch feel no breeze
climb no hills
imagine American battles
ocean fishing
grandkids

She eats over her lunch
unable to see
my love for her is entwined
woven through my soul
she has been there
in my life
for every
single
event

She asks if I have done anything new lately
I fill her in
her warm thin hand pats my knee
we hold hands
look out the wide window
into the narrow courtyard
toward the short time left for us
there’s something to do here

-Marta Dorton