Looking Through the Window of My Youth
by Patricia Hope

When I look through the window of my youth,
I see a warm kitchen where family, close
and extended, gathers around the table to share
in simple meals, food served with a side of love–
meatloaf and mashed potatoes, liver and onions,
baked chicken with cornbread dressing–
and plenty of homemade biscuits and cornbread.

After dinner in the warmer months, everyone
moved to the porch to rock and swing, while
the house cooled down enough to allow sleep.
The porch is where I got my education about
grownup things–politics, neighbors, family
business, religion–but the yard is where I had fun.
Catching fireflies, playing tag, looking at the stars,
girls talking about boys and clothes, boys talking
about girls and cars. It’s where I first tried
to smoke, it’s where I first played spin-the-bottle,
earning a quick kiss from Freddy Berry.

When night sounds subsided and the sun finally
set, and the stars climbed to their lofty perch,
we would make our way inside to a cooler house
and our bedrooms, where a box fan sitting in
the window stirred the night air and the night
smells, lilacs and roses, and sometimes a skunk.
I’d hear the wind in the willows that lined the creek
at the back of our property, my favorite place to play
or read a book. Now, I pretend I’m there under the
willows sitting on the creek bank, pull my book
from under my pillow, find my place, read until my
eyelids can no longer stay open, dream about all
the things I’ll do when I grow up.

Looking through the window, now, I long for that
simple life when we knew what to expect each day.
A time when everyone I loved was close enough
to hug and have them hug me, before innocence
was lost forever.
 

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