By Mackenzie Morong
springtime,
the time for new beginnings,
as I sit on the edge of my grandfather’s truck.
through the open front doorway, I see
boxes
and boxes.
my parents move through rooms,
stacking, cutting tape,
hauling boxes down the stairs.
my fingers tap on the truck bed,
cool metal under the petals gathered there
from our neighbor’s tree
the one that leans over the fence
over our driveway
the one I used to climb with them,
sit at the top,
survey the land.
all belonged to us.
now the branches sway in the breeze,
and the flowers bloom pink and white,
bees buzzing,
birds chirping,
I curl my hand around the glass of root beer
on my lap, and
a chill runs through me.
inside, the world turns over and over
with the squeak of tape pulling
and cardboard scraping walls.
outside,
I am still.