Summer.

As they knocked down walls and tore up floors
and swung that ball and chain on the crane through the sky,
I wonder if they knew.

Evidence of ways and days gone by;
of sitting around the breakfast table eating ice-cream covered pancakes.

Do they remember the spot on the concrete floor
behind the laundry room door
where my baby brother cracked open his head
and stained the floor red?

Did they know that I learned how to shuffle cards on that worn down table with the swinging lazy-susan in the center?
When they trampled the brush
did they reach down and touch the drift wood creations that littered the landscape there?
Did they know I served tea to my favorite teddy bear on the ground
by that worn down, beat down, old blue picnic table?

And as they carved out a space for the memories they'd make
did they notice the names that lined the walls?
Cousins B.J. and Danny, Betsy, Aunt Nancy
Patty, Mark's mom, her brothers Bill and Tom
Her sister, my brother, his father, her mother
Chiseled through years of fireside fears and tantrum-throwing toddler tears.


As they knocked down walls and tore up floors
and swung that ball and chain on the crane through the sky,
I wonder if they knew.