Joe
My world was young in the 1950's,
before small town America built backyard bomb shelters,
before Woodstock and free love,
when I was just a kid with braids
and Joe was just a freckle-faced boy.
We behaved in school;
talking in the halls, after one warning,
was punished with a lick from Mr. Arnett's paddle;
there was order in the classroom and lunchroom;
recess was a blessed relief for pent up spirits; but . . .
we thrived!
Spring came;
warm sunshine tickled our coats into piles on the sidewalk,
and first love came to fruition . . .
My sister walked the mile or more with me
up Two and Three-quarter Mile Creek to collect love's gift.
I still feel the warmth, still smell the earth, freshly turned,
still see his boyish, freckled-nose charm
as he placed his prize in my hands,
a common box turtle.
Would that such a simple gift could thrill me now as it did then . . .
when love was innocent.
© Faye Lanham Gibson, May 15, 2015
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