Arm Circles

mrs. wilford lived across the street from my old house. we met when i was 6 and she was 70 and we were friends right away.

she shared a large pond with a couple of neighbours and all the best parts of it were hugged by the shape of the land in her back lot. she had a dog named lady that we'd walk back there and a swan named webber who called the pond his home.

on days that mom was working she'd meet me at the bus and i'd sit in the warmth of her side room, as the afternoon sun hit the windows face on. i'd write her stories and draw her pictures there. drinking milky sweet tea with cookies.

she had grown up in the house and raised her own family there and you could feel that in the air, that thick fog of memories. it sparkled the brass and shined the dark wood of the banisters.

in the evening the sun set over a field of corn, perfectly outside her dining room window. the glow spilling over the white of her table lace.

in my memory times with her were almost magical. as though we could meet in my dreams and take it from where we left off.

the drawings are pictures she sent me in a letter long after i'd moved away. the writing is hers from the back of the photos and in essence, has her in the cursive. a mark of her existence in my life and her own.