In the painting,
Aunt Donna ignored
the three Peony bushes
in front of the house.
The eaves are brown
as in reality, but the door
was more cobalt than slate.
The shutters flapped
at any wind, as we ran
circles, chasing fireflies.
We hid behind the
Elderberry bushes
wearing boy haircuts
and raw knees. Dirt was
just a layer of clothing
for my sisters and me.
We made small forts between
the hedges, and disappeared for hours.
The shade from the house grew
moss instead of grass
and it soothed our bare feet
that sizzled from the asphalt driveway.
We blew bubbles of Ivory dish soap,
tiny rainbows on each one’s shell,
like oil shining on a puddle.
Uncle Herb must have had cats
because half empty bags of Whiskas
and Tender Vittles slumped
on garage workbenches, but no cat
would stay at the sound of
shrieking girls hiding and seeking
behind dusty toolboxes.
With his crooked walk
and occasional smile, he was
the hermit outline of Dad,
purring out of his drive way in a
1982 Volkswagen Rabbit.
After Uncle Herb and Marianne
divorced, he sold the house.
I didn’t know that Aunt Donna
painted until Christmas
when Dad unwrapped the painting.
It hangs in the office where sunlight
hits the wall through blinds.
Painted leaves turn their backs
to the light like a real Silver Maple
when a storm is whirling
in the clouds.
Carolyn Helmberger received her BA in English Literature from Creighton University in 1998 and her MFA from the University of Nebraska in January, 2008. Her work has been previously published in The Connecticut River Review, Pedestal Magazine, and is forthcoming in Cooweescoowee, Plainsongs, and elsewhere.
