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MY MOTHER’S STORY – by Will Walker

Posted on Sep 1, 2017 by in September 2017 |

Planted when she was a child, the evergreen grew
taller than the house in which she had grown up, cast

a long shadow over her father’s vegetable garden
and the roses ringed round the brass sun dial that said

Count only happy hours. Its shadow hovered, too, over
the garage filled with her father’s fragrances: cigars,

cut grass, loam, oil. He whistled through his teeth
while he planted the tree with the dirt and fertilizer

and wood chips to help it grow in the babble of recess
from the high school on the adjacent lot. Sunlight of the decades

sprouted in the yard, and she went out into the world
free of time, she thought, and collected her own bushel

of sorrows. Later she returned to stand by that tree now tall
as a city crane and sighed for the sapling it had been.

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