It’s the Little Things

I’m sitting in my parent’s little crib

Listening to the cadenced hum

Of the late afternoon Pontiac traffic.

Mom and Dad are catching a cat nap

And I’m helping with some odds and ends,

A mix of chores and errands

To lighten life’s load.

 

First, mom made one of her legendary lists,

Items needed from the corner grocery store

To tie them over for the next couple days.

Honey granola bars, clementines,

Bob Evans mashed potatoes,

Cran-Grape juice, diet peach Snapple,

And bottled water—big bottles for home,

Little bottles for the resident council meeting

Going down next week.

My mom is the president

And she doesn’t mess around.

 

After putting all the grub in its proper place,

I took to cleaning out their mulch beds.

The weeds were following marching orders,

Acting out Adam’s fallen curse—

a diaspora of diabolical depravity.

With a little dirt under my finger nails,

I tamed the savage earth, subduing it.

Dad wanted me to plant dahlia bulbs,

So I buried them with my green thumb

Entombed until their June resurrection.

 

As generational birdwatching enthusiasts,

My parents have four birdfeeders

Constantly needing filling,

Like a Christian, the Holy Ghost.

The grosbeaks and chickadees,

The sparrows and goldfinches,

Not to mention an occasional tufted titmouse.

They flock and take flight

Never thanking the hand that feeds them.

Feathered Freeloaders. 

 

As I sit here by myself 

Thinking about my catnapping parents

Serenaded to sleep by their whirring noisemaker  

Resting peacefully just on the other side

Of the paper thin wall between us,

I’m so happy to serve a purpose,

Albeit simple and small and solitary.

 

My contributions may not be as big as I’d like,

But sometimes the best things are the little things.