She had a garden in the back
beside an aging shed in which
she kept a child's old sled.
She talked about her early lettuce
and her sweet peas and other
thriving things that pleased.
She spoke easily about weather
and what made her garden grow
and how best to weed and hoe.
But never did she care to say
a word about the child's old sled
that hung in the weathered shed.
Til' one day an idle thought said
carelessly, brought quite clearly
a memory felt so deeply ... dearly.
Unconsciously I trust, without
intent, I spoke of winter snow
and how sleighing we would go.
My words, quickly out, quicker than
what great sadness mind could know,
dire pain that near the garden grows.
Turning to me, softly, she spoke,
pruning tool in her right hand
—the saddest face in all the land.
“Tommy, barely five that day we
went to sleigh on Northwind Hill,
a day that Fate would choose to kill.”
“Squealing out with joy, as down he
raced on his new Christmas sled.
Until he hit a tree ... and he was dead.”
Before I could utter a heartfelt word,
she had reached for seeds to sow
where she would help them grow.