Sofia

16

My Summer With Old People

The sun-tired corners
Of her eyes
And the sides of her smile
Face toward the light.
Sweet, stuffy air
Flows toward
Me
And I look for
The colored scent of
tomatoes.

"They're fragile,"
She tells me.
He kneels in the dirt,
Picking the weeds he can
See.
Pulling the vegetables that he
Can't.

They live for her.
Every cucumber
And piece of arugula.
She is the
Definition
Of "not a moment to
Lose".
She cares for one section
And drives off
In the green Subaru to
A different garden.
And they
Wait
For her return.
He sits in his
Rocking chair
And he
Waits
For her return.

I am a visitor.
They all see me as something
That keeps some of the
Weeds out.
I walk past him
And ask how
He is doing
Today.
He answers and tells me
That it
Sucks
Not being able to see the
Damn bean
That's right in his hand.
And he asks where she is.
He probably just wants to
See her face.
He probably just
Wants her to sit down
With him
And smell the summer squash
Grow.
Because you don't need to see it
If you can feel it right next to you.

But as the intense white
Light
Burns golden
And the garden grows until
It grows colder,
The acres orbit her
And she centers
Herself next
To him.
Because though
She can love him
While everything
Is depending on her
And needing her,
For him, the summer
Sun is less
Frustrating
In the fall.