Visiting

After Czeszlaw Milosz

The boy called 'hello' to me from his porch while I was walking by, nearly home, right at the top of the hill. His house is just like mine with the same cherry tree on the side. "I'm seven", he told me, and did I want to see the goldfish in the rain barrel?

We bounced on his trampoline and collected the souring apples from where they had fallen into the garden. My shorts caught here and there on bush bristles. We played in Kick the Can with the neighbors until he scraped his knee. It got cooler, and his mom called him for an afternoon snack.

I didn't want that day to end. Later, he would learn from his grandfather how to clamp a vice and pull the saw straight, steady. The lesson hasn't changed since it was taught to me, only the voice is a bit croakier now.

But I have to head back, so I left the boy to eat his little something. I went home up that porch and put on my trousers that go all the way to the ground. I put on a hairy face and body that feels its own weight.

Perhaps tomorrow we can drink chocolate milk barefoot on the porch or build legos. Maybe next year we'll vault puddles down in the ravine. Maybe tonight I'll read you a story.