Thresheld

Testament

Of course if I was given the chance
I would go back.
All the way back to the days
I can hardly remember
when the road was a vast patch of rocks
giving truth to name of the street
I grew up on, Rocky lane.
The back porch I remember my dad
putting together himself
in Sundays dirty work clothes,
so we had a place to stay cool
by the above ground pool
surrounded by trees well before
the property was consumed.
I remember my dad making a joke
of all the rocks he had to dig up
to make way for patio space,
"Even the ground here is rocky.
When this house was built they used
dynamite to clear a space."
I used to wiggle my way under the fence
at the end of our dead end street,
and roam the woods to the boundaries
of other neighborhoods.
It doesn't seem so big anymore.
Not since I'm grown and the woods have been cleared for more real estate.
The road is still steep, but paved over now.
My father's patio still remains
a bone yard of memories I shared with
the family that fate scattered.
Now he has his own rock to be remembered by,
humble and beautiful as it is
I prefer the testament of time
that is hidden under years of muck,
moss, and grime.
The slabs of cement that leveled us
while we were together.