I long


I long for the tall grass in the front garden and beyond - covering me, a nine-year-old child completely - a perfect place to hide. We used to make pretend fishing rods from it

I long for the sound of the wind getting lost in that long grass; its white hair whispering an unknown tale

I long for the shadow of the wooden fence, dog sleeping in the shadow. I splash water on him. No! He responds. That was a mistake. He never lashed at me before or after. Later, when he had maggots in his left elbow he would crawl under the front steps, waiting, silently

I long for the floorboards painted generations ago, now almost completely bare; with bare feet on the ground, and the grass, and the roof

I long for the careless days and nights - ow! hurt my ankle running downhill, braised my knee falling off the bike - it's ok, they would say, it will heal before your wedding day

I long for the sunflowers, strong and tall, and never ready in time for my leave

I long for her red skirt I caught in an accidental photograph I took. It's a simple one, made of cotton, on a single string

I long for the bread she cooked

I long for the wind I could lean onto; it held my weight effortlessly from the back

I long for the echo; Echo! I would shout into the distance - others shouted words, phrases - why, I pondered, it's meant to be an echo

I long for heat of the car and the small of its fabric; I would climb inside after a swim, wrapped in a towel, shivering. The bread tasted heavenly

I long for the song of the crickets in the field. Horses shaking their heads in the distance; the bells around their necks give them away. Their front legs tied together to keep them from running away too far. How unfair I thought then. The heat is scorching

I long for the sour taste of their milk

I long for the endless and sweet waiting. A car appears on the horizon. They're coming! I was always the first to know

I long for the water so clean and cold it hurt my teeth. Nearly drowned in that spring once, pulled out by my cousin. Another chance

I long for the cracking of the wood in the stove; the bread only goes in once it turns into coals I long for the sound of the language so foreign

I long for the sunset. Nowhere else does it seem so... I can’t find the word

I long for the smile so familiar

I long for her

I long for that which is no longer 

I long for me that is no longer and yet

I long