A Squirrel’s Front Teeth Never Stop Growing
My mother foraged for meals for nine daily. She hunted for quilt patterns and party dresses for teen girls. She gathered seashells to glue to our gift baskets. She organized our puzzle pieces by colors and shapes. She sorted socks of all sizes and seasons. She managed her checkbook like it was the national treasury. She collected pennies to invest in Dad’s retirement. Our nest of kits was always a crowded mess.
One by one, we fell out
and scurried away
to our own trees.
My dad stowed away all his childhood toys and family heirlooms. We hauled them from nest to nest. His old red metal truck. His mother’s doilies and kitchen utensils. His dad’s tools. Dad even hauled his old college papers and letters. But he laid to rest my toys, paintings, and memo pads with poems I wrote at the base of old tree homes for strangers to forage and rain to drown.
My memories fall to the earth,
crack open, and feed others
the dreams I once had.
(Publication of the Year 2024 on Spillwords)
