a walk down rainy lane

 a poem

Today I walked down Rainy Lane-- 

    wet pavement, shiny boots, dandelions 

that hovered in the ditches and gawked

     at the child who isn’t a child anymore.

But I pretended to be, for the sake 

     of walking down Rainy Lane, of

experiencing the salmonberries, 

     the banana slugs, the ancient house 

adorned in rusty paint and shingles,

     the skimpy apple tree with no apples.

I imagined myself to round the corner,

     to climb the crooked, slimy steps, to

open the door without knocking

     and greet a man who sits on the couch,

watching TV with a dog at his side. 

     “Hi Opa.” I tried the words on my lips,

but kept a steady pace down Rainy Lane,

     past a big red building and a new truck.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” said the neighbor, 

     and it was. It smelled like fresh flowers 

instead of cat pee and pickled asparagus–

     quite beautiful indeed. I didn’t say that

it felt wrong to know that the old house

     had been taken apart and now sat in a 

heap of wet, clumpy ashes somewhere 

     in the island dirt. I didn’t tell her that 

it will never quite feel the same 

     to take a walk down Rainy Lane.