This is based on a prompt from William Carlos Williams’ Poem “The Red Wheelbarrow”
so much depends upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.
The prompt was to write about a scene outdoors with reference to the poem
—–
When I moved out of my parents’ house in the summer of 2008, I realized that so much my concept of summer depends upon time spent in the back yard with my mother. We sat on green plastic lawn chairs, our conversations mostly inane. Sometimes, we sat in the kiddie pool my parents inevitably bought for the grandkids or the dog.
Many times, we read our separate books or worked together in the garden, the overzealous sun pressing against our backs, coated in sweat. The smell of lilies and lilac wafted across the yard. The bees flitted through the air, collecting pollen like black-and-yellow wheelbarrows. Cicadas sang off and on, alerting the hungry sparrows to their presence.
When I moved into the apartment, I was disappointed when I found it surrounded by pavement and concrete, with no lilies and lilacs in sight. The bees buzzed around garbage and our apartment filled with flies. My mom gave me a green plastic lawn chair, and I would sit outside, surveying my kingdom of potholes, the sick-sweet scent of garbage coming in on the breeze.
So, I would visit my parents’ house with my boyfriend in tow. He sat in the living room, splayed out on the couch, watching television and napping in the cool air. I sat outside with my mom, watching the grandkids play, sitting in those lawn chairs. Our huge glasses of iced tea glazed with water from condensation.
The kids ran around the yard, jumping on the trampoline and blowing bubbles. I would sigh with relief, surrounded by “controlled” nature, my hands sticky with “bubble-soup”. Locks of my hair adhered to my forehead. My skin was stiff with sunburn.
The kids fought for dominance over the yard, scattering dump-trucks, dolls and balls everywhere. They crawled over the tomato plants and ran from the bees. My parents’ back yard is a land of safety. It is guarded closely by the lawn ornaments, my mother’s frozen angels and my father’s stiff, white chickens.
