I took her to all the dead
and beautiful places.
After all, she was there
Waiting
in the vast parking lot
of Simpson‘s grocery store
once a place where all
the embarking G.I.‘s
had come to buy…
In my ten year old eyes
I thought it held thousands.
But she was there
alone
with only a trailer
on an acre of empty cement
her parents had appropriated
Waiting for me.
She said she had no friends
because her family kept moving
in the trailer
from one bleak parking lot
like this
to another.
I tried to tell her how this place
had once been so alive
a parking lot full of G.I.‘s
going off to World War II
buying, eating, drinking
touching everything in sight.
(Simpson‘s had really been the motor pool —
a gas station, garage and repair shop
its denizens.
But I preferred to imagine my canteen
teeming, seething with dozens of jeeps
G.I.‘s and army scenes, army life.)
I told her I would be her friend and that‘s
when I took her to all the dead and sacred places.
Here was the “colonel‘s house.”
It was a school for awhile
but in 4th grade the oil burner
burst and it burnt to the ground.
Here is where the rose bushes grow
Yes, they still bloom in season
and here is where the grown-ups
made a playground for us.
Look at the rope swings
and all the good things
we had—tire swings —
their memory is well alive here.
I remember fireworks
on the 4th of July—in this same field —
so close I thought I could catch them
as they fell out of the sky.
There‘s a place in Shanks Village
where you can swing on a vine
over a slope and then let go.
Did you ever do that?
The vine slips over the branch
and then you must decide
to jump
to fall
or be bashed
by what you thought you‘d left
behind.
Here‘s the big hill.
We still sleigh-ride on this hill.
We can crash into the FHA**
if we don‘t take care.
The FHA is where we pay the rent
but my mother makes me
bring the rent because
they have a picture of her there —
on the wall of the FHA.
Is she “wanted” asked the girl?
Why a picture there?
I guess she was a show-girl
she‘s very nearly bare but
I can‘t tell for sure
from where I pay the rent.
I don’t think my mother is “wanted”
not sure I really care.
I‘ve a story that‘s better —
about the sleigh-ride hill.
When I was five
my best friend‘s mother
took us to this same big hill
for dandelion picking and
we whined about the dandelion wine
we didn‘t want to work for.
But we picked dandelions:
Brett deBary, Mrs. deBary and I.
We picked forever and ever
happily ever after
under a perfect dandelion sun
and Fanny Brett deBary
went home with Brett
to make dandelion wine.
Two days later the wine exploded
kind of like the “colonel‘s house.”
It blew a hole right into
the barrack‘s cardboard ceiling.
Mrs. deBary and Brett
brought me over to see
and we all stared in thrall
imagining the dandelions‘ roar.
We said good-by in front of the trailer
and promised to stay friends forever
and always
but I cannot remember her name.
I turned to wave and she stayed
Waiting
in front of the trailer
until I disappeared.
Next day the trailer was gone.