Jiya Backup

As prelude to his visit, we planted red and pink begonias, poured Murphy’s Oil in water.  On step stool, sponge in hand, we scrubbed  lintel, door, and wood, rooting out webs, dirt, grime. We windexed, swept the path, hosed chairs, gathered debris. Then he arrived and spoke. Some said, “Sublime.” Some said, “Nectar.” To myself, I said, “I shall never be the same.” Touched by his love, I never was.

Many moons since penny candy,  licorice sticks in red, black, brown, eyeing and pointing, and old Eddie filling the bag piece by piece with jawbreakers, tootsie rolls, peanut butter cups, dots on white paper, licorice shaped like a record that unwound in your mouth, kool-aid inside a paper straw, you tore off the top and poured the kool-aid down your throat undiluted, many moons, many undiluted moons ago.

Grew up in Squirrel Hill, no joke, squirrels   scrambling up oaks and maples, digging and  hiding, scurrying, waving their glorious tails,  flying from branch to branch. As kids, we tried to capture them, but to no avail, they eluded us; free agents, beyond our grasp.  Once we saw a squirrel unearth an acorn.  Swear  it was a golden acorn. I raced after my squirrel, watching his every swerve. from the high branches, heard him singing, only it was more than a song.  Swear  I heard him chanting God’s name.

Forget me not When I am old and brittle When my back is humped Like a whale's When my teeth are broken. Forget me not, for I am genuine I am authentic I'm the Real McCoy Forget me not.