I was looking through photos
and I saw this one
dark, shadowed, like a murder.

Here’s what had happened.
Under the cover of night
I’d stolen into our old yard
and like a gravedigger
I exhumed the rhubarb
Joe planted so long ago.

I remember thinking:
that’s mine to take.
And so I did.

200 days later that one forgotten act
feels so big, so obvious
Like a dumb foreshadowing clue
in a bad great American novel.

The bright green and red that came back
every year for years, pushing up through the tough winter dirt
there in our old yard, where our kids were born, where they grew up,

That, that was the rhubarb we’d cook into pies for neighbors
Cook down into syrup for drinks on the first warm night on the porch.
It was a gift, to us, from us, a harbinger of new things and everything to come

every spring, every every every spring, it was there for us


December 16, 2019 / writing / short