Memories of a Childhood Home
My dad built a house on a hill. How exciting to climb to the tippy-top then look down upon the roof, and dog home, the bean garden, and to sled the slope in Winter white.
eyes delirious
dazzled, dizzy, delighted
dopamine kicked in
A truck gets stuck at the bottom of our steep driveway, blocking local traffic on our rural road. I wonder if this sticks in anyone else’s memory? Then like ants, industrious, sweating for donuts and coffee, my dad’s friends work their quads, up and down this unexpected hell.
our walls carried up
unfinished planks, like a cross
friendship marches on
We’d help spackle the parts of the wall scored by nails. Dad would use the saw to cut a wooden floor, like his rest-in-peace dad, who surely stops in to measure his son’s progress, to see his grandkids placing the unstained wood.
this home has no ghosts
brand-spanking new on old hill
but the past’s with us
While constructing, Mom would open a can of Dinty Moore stew, cook over a portable stove, and serve over rice. We would order Pizza from Salvatore’s - my mouth waters at the thought of this New York pie with Italian sausage, sauce and cheese. They’d occasionally order a submarine; I can still taste the fresh lettuce, tomato and thin-sliced deli meats on yeasty bread.
what we remember
is funny; the senses touch
childhood memories
The builder, of the house’s frame, was called one day. He was told my dad went through the roof. Later, they came, standing outside and sizing up the roof, when my mom questioned them as to what he was looking at. Mom rolled her eyes as she told him, what was meant, was that my dad was mad.
screwball translation
the heated conversation
is lost in humor
Shovelling the driveway, in Winter, in my plaid, woollen, hooded coat. My face can feel the chill, the briskness of the wind, and the warmth of mittens. I miss my childhood, even the arduous times, those wonderful family times.
a surprise arrives
at this address; a newborn
unplanned, a kicker
Copyright ©
Kim Rodrigues
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