Haley DiRenzo

A Memory in the Kitchen as Children Play Pretend Next Door

We beat summercallused feet on cold stone
after the rain. Dirt damp. Enough for small hands
to scoop, fill buckets with muddy hose water.
We'd steal an egg from your kitchen, crack its goo
in the potion, stir with a long broken branch.
Speak spells inside cardboard box castles
growing damp against dew kissed grass.
I never had berries like the sweetripened hearts
plump on the bush we'd blast bees from
before harvesting. Plucked with tiny fingers.
Nestled in open palms. We’d crumple
milkwhite petals in fists. Carry split open
crab apple stains on our t-shirts.

Now I jump at the children's backyard screech
forgetting how close joy sounds to fear.
You are gone but I remember
how belonging steadies you
even before you know it is rare.
I want to walk back through that gate uninvited
if only to witness the wound
of the raspberry bush,
gutted, that I can otherwise pretend
whoever came after kept alive.

Haley DiRenzo is a Colorado writer and attorney specializing in eviction defense. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Barely South, Thimble, Gone Lawn, and Ink in Thirds, among others, and has been nominated for Best of the Net. BlueSky: @haleydirenzo.bsky.social. Instagram: @haleydirenzo