Tewksbury Hill in Summer
I pack the spaghetti O’s in Tupperware,
and the smell of hot plastic permeates
the meadow as our feet
sweep the tall July grass
into a sunny dandelion zephyr
and grasshoppers scratch our legs.

On our own, brother and sister
old enough to leave home
long enough
for a picnic lunch
In the neighbor’s field.

I serve what I’ve cooked
and we eat
side-by-side,
lips red with kool-aid
now tepid from riding
in a pink backpack
beside the warm dinnerware.

The sun casts leafy shadows
on our faces
as it passes the hours
through a sky
we never thought
would end.

Shadows grow on tag
and stick forts
and chatter–
all the little somethings
in the daily life we shared.

Oh, we fight, too, for though
we are friends,
we are siblings first.

I pack the empty dishes,
and we hike back down the hill
to do it all over again tomorrow.

“I know it sounds familiar,”
my brother’s deep voice,
adult and distant,
says over the phone.

His wife coos to their screaming infant
as he holds down stirring the dinner pot,
finalizing travel plans to the family reunion.

“I know I’ve heard of Tewksbury Hill,
but I just can’t place it.”
Somewhere on the side of that same hill,
the dandelion snow blows
while the crickets chirp the summer’s end.