You asked if I had a last wish.
Actually, I do. I’d like
to return to my little town
for just one day,
a warm September day
when I was 13, when I served
as apprentice to my father
who taught me more than half
the useful skills I would need
to go forth into the world.
But that came after,
after that September day
when there were just the two of us,
dressed in soft old clothes,
ones that could withstand
dirt, and paint, and grass stains.
Our goal was to paint
the chicken house
out behind the barn.
I wish you could have been there.
It was as near an idyllic day
as God ever made – warm, sunny,
the scent of apple drops perfuming the air,
and the low, ongoing rasp of bees
gorging themselves on that overripe fruit.
Once we began painting,
my father took out a small
transistor radio, fiddled with the dial,
and soon sounds of the World Series
filled the air, traveling all the way
from New York to a small farm in Iowa.
Would it be too much to ask
just to re-visit that one very ordinary day?
***
Mary Ellen Shaughan is a native Iowan who now calls Western Massachusetts home. Her poetry has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies both in this country and the UK, and has been nominated for a Pushcart prize. Her first book of poetry, Home Grown, can be found on Amazon and elsewhere.
