A lonely, straggled suitcase lays remotely in the corner,
hastily filled just hours before.
Socks and sleeves of shirts stick out the sides
in a desperate attempt to escape.
“Mother is going away,” she’d explain to me, while
yanking up a stubborn zipper,
nearly lifting me off the ground. My pink sneakers
are my only anchor to the floor.
I did nothing but nod in ersatz understanding,
while gazing into her watery blue eyes.
Now, I watch the back of her car
speeding away into the sheltering sycamores and ferns.
The gravel groans and shifts uncomfortably
beneath the weight of the spinning tires.
The smell of cinnamon and cigars twirls around my nose,
making my eyes water.
“Grandpap,” I ask, “where is Away?”
Grandpap shifts his pipe from one side of his whiskered mouth to the other,
thoughtfully. He always thinks before speaking,
rolling the words over on his tongue to make sure they taste alright.
“Away is anywhere you and I are not.”
His accent is thick and heavy, slowing down his speech,
sticking to the words
and dragging them down like thick, sweet syrup.
I nod in understanding.
Sitting back in the tired old veranda chair,
I sip my Grandmam’s famous homemade lemonade.
“In our country, we grow our own lemons
And the lemonade tastes even better.
It’s like sipping a sunset.”
Grandmam always told me to go back
to our country someday.
I wonder if she wants me to drink a sunset,
or maybe mail one back to her.
I feel the grains of sugar on my tongue,
and swish them between my teeth,
back and forth,
thoughtfully.
My pink sneakers linger in midair above the splintering wood.
And the sun sets gently behind the watery blue lake,
falling into the tops of the trees.
And I sit,
and I wonder if Away has telephones.