I Had Forgotten

how much Mom
loved to smoke Kent Cigarettes with her morning coffee
and how hard she struggled
to give them up over the years.

How much Mom adored chocolate covered peanuts.
She would buy them and hide them in high places
so that we kids wouldn’t find them,
but Ricky knew all her hiding spots.

How Mom said Dad was really three different people:
one at home, another at work, and a third at church.
I asked her once which Dad she liked best.
She said she preferred Dad at church.
How we invented games
to entertain ourselves on hot, summer
afternoons sitting on the porch,
watching the cars go by, pretending


the next Studebaker belonged to me and
the Hudson after that belonged to you
and then laughing out loud if one of us got stuck
with all the clunkers.

How we slept on chairs in front of the window
air-conditioner in the dining room on muggy
Iowa nights when the humidity was 90
and so was the temperature.

How we begged Dad to take us for a drive
down Country Club Boulevard
with the top down so we could feel
the cool air swirling around our faces.

How he took us to the Dairy Queen where we ordered banana splits
with three scoops of soft ice cream, swimming
in a sea of chocolate sauce, strawberry syrup,
and pineapple chunks.

How Mr. Hilgers would sit out in his front yard
in his rocking chair
and smoke Camel cigarettes non-stop until the nicotine
turned his fingers yellowish-brown.

How I sat on Dad’s lap and sobbed
because I had been lying in bed thinking about eternity
and how long you would have to spend up in Heaven
after you died with no possibility of ever leaving the place.

How Ruth Ann Bryans died at the age of 14
when a metal pole from a swing set fell on her heart and crushed it.
How Bobby Berryman died at age 13 from chronic colitis
after intentionally eating popcorn when he knew he shouldn't.

How I once had a butterfly collection
that I kept in a box, lined with black velvet.
How I caught the butterflies with a home-made net,
fashioned out of a bent coat hanger covered with one of my mother’s

nylon stockings. How I pulled the butterflies’ heads off to kill them.
Then I laid their wings in the velvet-lined box and
placed a hand-written label under each set of wings
with the butterfly’s name on it.

How I tired of the collection, eventually,
went up to the third floor attic,
opened the window, tipped the box over, and
let all the dried butterfly wings sail
out the window and float to the ground.