Homebound

Near the side of the road
one sister smiles her eager face
that always reminds me of water
splashing in a pool. Behind her,
floppy gray hair bounding
all directions, my mother plants
her feet and lifts her hand. She smiles
her confidence. The vision
only lasts a moment. I’m feeling
it for hours, refreshing as the breeze
under those sun-swept trees.  

My two brothers and my other sister
are riding in a yellow Jeep.
They’re waving, calm and free.
I feel the cool air in their chests.
My father in his Hawaiian shirt,
his tan almost recreational,
grins and momentarily
takes his eyes off the road.
The window where he rests
his left arm frames his face;
dark rims frame his eyes.  

All his life, he was mostly blind.
My mother had hawk eyes,
missing nothing. Now I
am in between, but clarity
of memory is succinct.
These may be the visions
I’ll fall back on, thinking
there’s adventure up ahead.
How relaxed and present
is recognition in their faces.
I see them see me. I’m home.

20 thoughts on “Homebound

  1. Mary Owens

    It’s so rare to have such untainted, purely pleasant memories of family. Thank you for sharing that. I dare say we could all do with more generous memories of our loved ones.

    Reply
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