EARL
by Micaela Walley
I slept under banana trees
in the Mississippi
summers, young and
unaware of heat.
my bones built of play-
ground metals and side-
walk chalk; I learned to seize
opportunity from the worms
in my oranges. Nothing
about my grandfather was soft,
though he planted fruit trees
in improbable climates. His hair
so thin I imagined I could
scoop it off his head
with a spoon. Every meal he gave
me contained something sweet.
The way he believed conclusively
in growth—I think I owe him
to move on from this loss. Even if
the trees he planted never flowered
they still mattered, if only
for their cool, brief shade.
Photo by Štefan Štefančík
