by Caitlin Ross
a fuschia holds a different meaning to you than it does to me
my hands shrink down to a child’s hands and i laugh
do you remember who you were before the world took its toll on you?
and do you know where that person lives on?
do they linger by the old green pond teeming with fish
where you would dip your hands into the cool water to catch minnows?
the pond they later covered up with chicken wire
but you’d still poke your fingers into the depths and giggle
perhaps they stay in the backyard of your grandparents’ house
embraced by the silvery willow tree
making daisy chains and counting ladybirds in the grass
the dappled sunlight bouncing atop your head
maybe you remain in the road trips through forests
with trees tall enough to brush the heavens
the sky distorted through masses of wavering leaves
and the graffitied street sign claiming fairies dwelt nearby
maybe you still live in the shady veggie patch with your friends
building houses out of sticks and stones for bugs to inhabit
sharing sweet lilly-pillies and chewing sourgrass
squeezing nectar out of flowers to lick off of fingertips
parts of you remain in the tinkling brook behind the third-grade classroom
in backyard patches of wild mint and rhubarb
in fields of heather and forests of fern searching for spittlebugs
sitting under the cherry blossom tree and watching the petals fall like snow around you
alas, you share not these memories with me
for life is something we can never quite experience in the same way
dear reader, i beg of you to relish the times you slip into nostalgia
for a fuschia holds a different meaning to you than it does to me.