One Poem by Heather Sager

 

The Neighbourhood Changed Me

 

One afternoon after school,

the neighbourhood changed me.

I didn’t normally walk there.

 

The angles of someone’s kitchen window,

so unlike my own—that much I saw

when I stood around,

a petulant onlooker.

Through another window,

the inviting square of a living room

not quite like mine,

in some ways, cosier.

 

I felt strange in this neighbourhood,

that I both did and did not

belong. The slender trees marched up in a line

toward the little slope, a pleasant place to frolic,

just like the greens near my house.

 

At last, I walked down

the long thread of my driveway.

I stopped before the windows

of our old farmhouse.

Far, but not too far

from town.

 

Grandma’s car waited in the drive.

In the kitchen, I said my hello,

waiting for my dear parents, or anyone,

and for a moment when no one came,

a fear chilled my heart

that they’d all be gone.

 

Then, “Hello,” Grandmother said,

as she walked into the room.

“I’ve just stopped by,” she said,

her round face smiling and her eyes

looking into my eyes, yet

her appearance seemed to me

so unfamiliar.

 

Suddenly

all that was taken for granted

rang clear. What secrets

glimmered behind her smile, her eyes?

And, in my brothers, my parents,

what mysteries awaited

in their pasts, their hearts?

Heather Sager lives in Illinois where she writes poetry and fiction. Her most recent work appears in Fahmidan Journal, Magma Poetry, Willows Wept, Red Wolf, Briefly Zine, The Fabulist, talking about strawberries all of the time, and more.