She Comes Home from College for the Weekend
a prose poem
You may laugh, but it feels like a visit from royalty, and that we are not the parents of royalty, but that we are, you know, the faithful retainers. When she sits on the floor of the castle sorting photos, we sigh and say, “Yes, that was you, your blonde hair a halo in the light filtered by redwood trees.” And we say, “Your hands were always beautiful.” Yes, we are the humble servants glad to have her back for a weekend, more amused and attentive than anyone to her tales of adventure on the coast of Mexico. We gladly wash her clothes, fix the door of her car, only tsk slightly to ourselves. “She is messy,” our eyes say. Will her carelessness cause her harm, we wonder.
We sympathize with her parents who deny these leave takings. We are glad we can stand for them, waving as she backs out of the driveway and then goes forward into the flow of noisy traffic.
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