My friend Skills.
~*~*~*~
I am from the old rusty bicycle dragged home from a ditch. From Hai Karate and Bubble Yum, my mouth packed full to make sticky grape bubbles as big as my face.
I am from handprints in the sidewalk by the little yellow house hewn from my dad’s own hands, down a long country drive, empty, quiet, save garish green plastic tiles.
I am from the jade plant in the orange clay pot, ancient and dusty, perched on an old plate over a water-stained doily; from daisies that grew wild, Oregon berries and purple vetch, rolling fields and ripples of color.
I’m from Christmas at Grandma’s, home made candies, wild poker games, and turkey with all the trimmings; from mechanical aptitude, Smelly Shelley and Birgetta.
I’m from good-natured one-upmanship and preoccupation, from you are grounded and your hands are your tools, take care of them.
I am from Jesus in a white robe above Grandma’s door, arms outstretched in heaven’s holy light.
I’m from philanderers, Staples, Nixons and Knapps, from Kraft macaroni and cheese and hotdogs with sauerkraut.
From the gas-powered helicopter that Uncle George brought, carried away by the slipstream after Dad made it better, from birds nesting in Grandma’s old tea kettles that were hung from the eves, from monarch butterfly swarms and ladybugs covering the trees.
From Patton Valley Cherry Grove and Grandma’s museum once bursting with treasures from an era gone by, artifacts from pioneer days -now gone, scattered by dissent. Lost, forever.
