The Breakfast Bench
Concealed by a family of Dutch immigrants
cast in bronze and framed in flashy hibiscus,
surrounded by black-buttoned gold called Susans,
a clumpy hedge of roses, a wall of waist-high grasses,
the bench, the two women agree,
as they stroll arm-in-arm up the cobbled path,
is perfect. Perched on top a grassy hill
overlooking a familiar lake,
steps from parking, ignored
by book clubbers seated in a circle
under the arms of an oak,
the knee-high toddler skipping
atop a wall, pregnant mom in chase,
the lovebirds cooing on a distant bench,
the faraway look of a man, fishing pole
leaning against the fence, line dangling,
the wooden bench is ideal for the daughter
and her mother searching for a place
to share the rare treat of fresh muffins,
discuss wind and water, ripples, cats’ paws,
the speed and roar of powerboats,
the slow, deliberate journey of sailors.
When they return, autumn wafts
across the water. First, it is the elder
who is limping, an infection, arthritis;
then the younger, a sprain, a fracture.
The women agree the bench is perfect,
a short walk to normalcy; building winds,
the hum of boats, the cry of seagulls,
the parade of strollers along water’s edge,
a conversation in the language of sailing
on a bench that has weathered the seasons.
In Gratitude
for my mother
0 Comments