When I was 15
My father poked the oak fire with a stick
And we ate hot spicy kolbasz
Spitting fat and juice from the fire.
When I was 20
I stayed a week
And jogged in the evenings
Jumping over the black hairy tarantulas
Marching across the road, slow and deliberate,
Like the ache in my heart.
When I was 50
We walked the steep dry hills
Through brown brambles and weeds
Past broken bits of fence and rusting metal stakes
Piled beneath overgrown oaks.
You wandered further
While I waited in the car
Pulling stickers out of my socks.
Pulling stickers from my mind and memory.