Changes

I remember

running on our gravel road

 

past a couple crackerbox tract houses

onto the main road , just two unpaved troughs through the swamp

lush with green cattails before their fuzzies came

and red wing blackbirds

everywhere, flashes of color.

There was the smell of

loamy wetness and green freshness while

summer breezes and  bright sun forbade

mosquitoes trespass until  dusk freed them later.

 I would be home by then, washed off of dust

that tasted of oatmeal,

Mom making me

mustard sandwiches

and cherry Kool-Aid in a big pitcher

with condensation running down the sides

drawn with faces,  finger etched in the frosted surface.

I was always thinking about that running

relishing the wind in my eyes and a  good soreness in my legs

from journeys leaving me feeling as complete as I ever would.

Journeys that abruptly ended

with Dr Soaper telling Mom I needed glasses.

Clumsy heavy things that slid down my nose and made other kids mock “Four eyes, Four eyes.”

Things that smudges and sweat and dust had to be constantly wiped from and that felt so unnatural and limiting, I hated them.

They stole my freedom.

While making things clearer

It was not pretty like the impressionist world I saw without them.

I was always taking them off ,but Mom always made me put them back on .

 I was saddest that I could no longer feel the wind on my eyes running.

 Because of those glasses 

running just wasn’t fun anymore.

 

Then we moved to town.

Mom got a divorce.

 

I remember.

Because  things were never the same again.                                        


–Jerry Wendt 2014