Grace Gilbert ’13
Behind us lies the freshly
weeded watermelon patch.
Hand, foot, knee prints litter
the empty garden’s dirt,
the work of our three little bodies,
despite the wooden boards that
separate row from row.
Only minutes ago,
we sat ripping weeds,
with joyful violence,
But now, we are preoccupied.
We have dirt, you see,
piled up in the rusty wheelbarrow.
It clings to weedy roots,
and falls to our feet, but still,
we have dirt.
Eli is the most outgoing with the dirt.
He touches it, squeezes it, plays with it.
Dust rises from the small explosion
of each clod tossed from his balled palm.
He wipes his nose on his sleeve to get
the tingling of his nose to stop.
His little seven-year-old senses egg him on.
The fun of the dirt is worth the dusty reaction.
Behind him, I am bored.
I do not want to play in dirt.
I do not want to stain the already frayed fabric
of my toddler jean overalls.
I am three, but I feel thirty inside.
I can drink from a real cup,
I can read from a real book,
but not really.
I lean on my rake, waiting.
Aaron stands over us, watching,
as older brothers often do.
“Oh, you kids. Playing in dirt.
How cute.”
This is the wisdom of a nine-year-old.
Head-to-toe in purple,
he stands beyond us as the photo is snapped
and we’re together,
in this one moment, if not always,
playing, waiting, watching.
We have dirt.