When Our Kids Went Home with Their Kids
by Joel Holland
This orange field belongs to the fading sun,
First Place WinnerThird Place Winner
Entitled to a light of its own,
But that light is also ours,
Trying to find a way to tell us
It’s had enough of our gentle coaxing.
Your hair still gets in your eyes.
Rocking on a small porch we paid a little bit extra for,
I sneeze loudly and you assure me
The tight narration of a book I’ll never read.
You chuckle softly and rub your hands.
Together we crane necks to see something
Just beyond the field. Please fill my mind
With what’s on yours, if you could.
Are you missing them already, or are you content?
Yesterday’s downpour stopped for our driveway.
I wait for you to look my way again,
As we grow old and embrace it together.
If we’re still aging, we still have time.
We could run in the rain again.
Chasing hens out of a barn that wasn’t ours.
That old farm was falling apart,
And your father always spoke with firmness:
“You’ll get tetanus climbing around like that”
But that night, crumbling as it was,
Will stay forever untouched.
You cast your lips above my pursed brow,
And hand me sweet tea with crushed ice.
I didn’t hear you rise this time, so I strain
My ears to hear the sound of your rocking chair
Talking back to the floorboards beneath it.
The damp newspaper still lies at our feet,
And countless calendars rest on our dresser.
Your hands loosely grip mine, forever,
I am held. When the wind whispers to us both,
We’ll pretend not to hear it.
About the Author
Joel Holland is a senior Biblical Studies major and Creative Writing minor
at Union University. Joel is perpetually intrigued, better appreciating
when he doesn't understand through writing. For more reflections and poems
from Joel visit the HumblyOdd section on his website HumblyAwed.com.