I can’t remember if I had a wagon.
Maybe I could ask my mother-
but she doesn’t like remembering.
I know she buries a lot in her Tupperware
and when wetly, it’s like pushing
with my legs on the downward arc
on a swing. I can almost taste the dirt
of the playground. I can certainly hear
the silence of all the hours spent alone
carefully imagining what I would need
to carry with me to be a grownup:
blankets, paper, pencils, candy,
a sweater, books, tea, toothpaste,
rings, a hat, a camera, band aids,
and whatever would fit in my wagon,
if I had one. I have a house now
with all those things. I made sure
my children had a wagon.
I also have Tupperware and a tendency
to bury things I try not to remember.
I wonder if I pay enough attention
to the hope of sunsets and new blooms.
Maybe I could ask my daughter.