The Boy Who Is My Heart. So Much Depends On A Yellow Steamroller

I’m not much given to waxing poetic, even though my minor was creative writing, but this one moment in time moved me to string words together and it was actually published a couple years ago in an anthology. It’s one of my absolute favorite bits of writing. Copied from my other blog, Enchanted Seashells, Confessions of a Tugboat Captain’s Wife (www.enchantedseashells.com)


…a sort of homage to William Carlos Williams

The Yellow Steamroller

So much depends
upon

a yellow
steamroller

buried

in the dirt
behind the shed
On a bitterly cold afternoon, my tugboat man and I embarked on our annual yard cleanup project.
I raked all the pine needles shaken loose during the fury of Alaska-borne winds that roared down the coast to Southern California while he trimmed the eucalyptus and mulberry trees.
Metal rake clanged against metal.
I saw bright yellow igniting the dirt and pine needles suffused it with a gleaming radiance through the brown. 
steamroller1
I threw down the rake, crouched on all fours, and with bare fingers dug through the wet fecund soil to uncover an abandoned yellow Matchbox toy from the spot where there once was a sandbox that my son’s dad  built for him when we first moved to this house in 1985.
I discover in situ a three-inch wide artifact imbued with all the wonder of my perfect child. 
I gently brushed away twenty-five years of encrusted soil and sand.
steamroller2
sandboxI was engulfed in a wave of memory. I was there. I saw him.
My heart.
My four-year-old son in this beautiful huge sandbox filled with fresh, clean sand.  
I saw him as I often watched him from the bay window in the kitchen overlooking the backyard where I would wash dishes and keep an eye on him, keeping him safe–always keeping him safe–as he played in the sand with his dump trucks and cherry pickers and this steam roller and his buckets and plastic cups and forks and sticks with his cats and dog always near, and the loveliness of the memory set me on my heels and I cried.
Happy tears for the exquisite soft rosy glow of healthy well-fed cheeks, the deep Imperial jade green eyes, the curls that were my curls, my boy, my angel love.
The boy whose every breath contains a whisper of the intangible all encompassing LOVE I possess for this being who was a part of me before he was a part of the earth and sun and sky and sand.
The boy who is my heart.
I shut my eyes tight to keep the pictures from disappearing, but the ephemeral/evanescent impressions floated away with the tears that spilled out for the remembering of the beauty of a luminous child playing in a sandbox, singing to himself and constructing sand sculptures of the future, or, in his case, building words and spinning thoughts and erratica.
Those grains of sand that between his fingers mashed and smashed into forts and tunnels were the detritus of the granite from whence his brain reformed them grain by grain into skyscrapers of words and sentences that flow like a path from the back door to the sandbox.
And back to my heart. 
looking down from the hill
The Red Wheelbarrow 
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.
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