I want to tell you
little things like
the countertop where we sat together
is made from chalk boards out of the original Whitefish school built in 1910,
or that the mint that grows along the creek, with rose hips, makes the best tea,
and how the smell of that tea staying warm on the wood stove
is a treasure from my childhood.
I want to tell you about the red gelding named Champ, I had when I was five
that my parents traded for the mandolin I still play.
As if by telling you,
you will have been there for more of my life, !
like I could bring you with me to when I walked barefoot
through the meadow in Nutrioso if I could just tell you
exactly how the grass felt on my feet.
And I want you to take me with you
on weekend trips to the farm, to climb the ladder to the mezzanine
passing through to your grandparents room,
landing on their bed, for a moment
you could fly!
Raindrops on the skylight while stories were being told.
Or even to the time your step-father
painted your room black because he knew how much you loved
bright, happy colors, then sent you to your room for a year.
And I could bring you steam rising from loaves of bread
up turned on the counter, freshly out of their pans.
You could show me the slow fall of snow
through the branches of ancient spruce.
The rhythmic sway of tall grass in September wind.