Fairhope

By Nola Gordon and Sophia Brokenshire

Despite clenched teeth and gripped fists,

I am gentle.

And although my heart may carry a constant ache,

its rhythm mimics what was once my little feet,

stomping off the hot sand on the steps of home,

holding on to my sister’s shoulder as she stood still.

I was sweet and she was brave.

I see the train tracks at dawn, look both ways we were told

but I felt safer holding another’s hand

and crossing at the count of three

and skipping over the rusty metal for good luck.

I am back home.

The juice of a peach drips from my lips onto my bare legs,

and i see the sun setting

in july 

from the screened porch.

We listen to the soundtrack of laughter and cicadas 

and the rocking chair swings back and forth, synchronizing itself 

to the music of a nostalgic night.

My feet are on the uneven old wooden floor again,

all the windows and doors are open, the curtains dance with the fireflies

I chase after them, glass jar in hand, the one that smelled of strawberry jam.

The wind carries in a hum through the tall grass, and a murmur in the bayside’s movement. 

Running into the arms of my nana,

her southern voice calling my name

the whole world in which she had seen, shining through her eyes,

they’re the same shape as mine.

She tells me that I have my mother’s courage, 

That I must hold on to it, but I don’t yet understand why I would ever let it go.

There is dirt on my fingernails,

I yearn, I dream,

I pray to the god that they believed in,

to watch my poppy’s hands in the earth

growing magic, seeing it in front of me. 

He tells me to be patient, that by next summer the flowers will be in full bloom.

When I close my eyes I am back in that big white house,

risen above ground

and everyone is home

and I feel overwhelming sensations in my heart,

of love.