Memories from the senses appear without invitation. Watching the grand-girls climbing a tree perches me in my own tree in a grandparents' backyard where I spent summer days reading after dragging an old pillow up to a limb. A grandpa mows along with me as I push my little mower, listening to its whirr, whirr, whirr. There is no sound I know like it.
This poem arrived from a taste, a summer afternoon treat at a grandparents' home where I visited each summer through most of my growing-up years. That taste of Pepsi let the words pour!
Pepsi Time
Let me be transformed, if only for a while.
I drink my Pepsi and become a little girl again.
On the farm, humidity hovers,
insects surround - showing off,
helping.
Swing, sit and sipone icy glass under the elm.
The afternoon pauses,
waits for the evening cool.
I escape upstairs to the spare room of stories,
for The Saturday Evening Post,
a gift saved for me all year,
that magazine of good fiction
I read once in a while now,
but only online.
Newsprint smells welcome
and I turn the pages with a clip, flip.
I settle and sigh,
satisfied that nothing has changed.
For this summer month,
I live my child's life—
nothing to harm me,
no worries around me.
They love me,
daughter of their
lost son.
And feed me biscuits
and stars
and Pepsi.
Linda Baie (c) All Rights Reserved