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Sit-upons that we wove together.
The troop activity. How many spots
will remember me?

The wicker basket and picnic blanket
woven into the amphitheatre. We,
my hubby and I,
cozied up, listened to Amy Grant.

My towel, with the Caribbean islands,
sinking in the warm sand, waiting
for my salt-sea body to rest.

My familiar easy chair,
the grandkids are always
welcome to share.

The pews that retain glory and praise
on Sundays and Wednesdays.

The split-level stairs,
carpeted teal,
where I oft sit and watch
somersaults
and converse with a houseful.

There are the horses,
that lent their backs,
brought me to greater heights -
walked me on the Cozumel beach,
‘round Yukon’s emerald lake,
and one that wanted to dive off a cliff,
“whoa…no!” I took control.

On my childhood bed,
so close to my sister-cousin.
We laughed and shared -
now it's only in my memory.

The yellow bus, -
my hopes and dreams were sown
within its polyester seats.

So many places where I sat,
brimming above or below the surface.
So many places we stay and go.
We squat, recline, attack.

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