By Janet Banks
Upholstery rough on my seven-year-old knees
as I watch my world disappear in the rear window
of our pea-green Dodge. Goodbye, park swings
where I learned to pump high, no need for a push.
A trailer hitched to the back bumper weaves on two
wheels, bobbing along from Primghar to Ida Grove.
Mattresses, headboards, bedframes under quilts
tied with heavy rope. A three-bulb floor lamp, plug
big as a radish, knocks a steady rhythm against slats
of the oversized cart Dad built. He’s been hauling
our belongings sixty miles daily for a week. Today
his final trip, my first.
Stucco pillars, a porch the length of the new house,
much grander than the one we left behind. Wooden
swing, forest green, hangs on chains – a surprise.
In the front room, davenport, dining table chairs
all askew await our arrival, to be properly arranged.
Breakfast nook in the kitchen painted firehouse red.
My dolls, one who cries, the other with hair I can
comb, my train and the tracks in pieces and Little Golden
Books are stacked in the smallest bedroom upstairs. Pink
and yellow bouquets tied with blue ribbon, the wallpaper,
fancy. Dad tightens the bedframe, doesn’t ask if I’m pleased
nor do I tell him I am.
Mother tucks me in, leaves the door ajar, the hall light
on, says not to worry, she’ll be downstairs unpacking
dishes. I scrunch down, toes search for the footboard.
Sheets ironed and fresh smell like the backyard I miss.
I bite the top sheet, taste the clean on my tongue, rock
myself to sleep with my toes.
Standing on the edge
of the continent where ocean meets
sky, I search for relief. Too many
sleepless nights have rendered me dull,
fretful – afraid life is slipping away.
Shivering in autumn’s wind,
I long for a cure.
Lungs need breathing air and salt.
Nature is free on this slim lip of
the Atlantic. I wish to be included.
Sea foam chills, soaks my pantlegs
through.
On Hellcat Trail, zigzagging through
freshwater marsh, growth is the color
of wheat. Cattails congregate like noble
soldiers above the fray, reeds fly tassels
high above my head.
Back to the shore, sky melds into sea,
waves, loud as cymbals. Me, calm in
knowing specifically where I stand.
Gulls caw, swoop round, claim all
for themselves, but me.
Parker River National Wildlife Refuge
6 Plum Island Turnpike
Newburyport, Massachusetts 01950
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Janet Banks is a Boston-based writer with roots in Iowa and New York City. Her personal essays and poems have been published by Harvard Business Review, Parks & Points, Bluestem Magazine, WBUR’s Cognoscenti, Poetry and Places, The Rumpus, Entropy Magazine, Silver Birch Press, Bryant Literary Review, Poetry and Covid, as well as other online sites.