A wagon-full

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.

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