Where has all the real wood gone?

dad ripped up the deck

this thanksgiving.

needed a project to quell

the nervous hands, to dampen

my mothers mutterings.

my dog didn’t know what to make of it

her whole life the deck had stood

there:

creaky, my summer allowance paint-job

peeling like bamboo,

permanent.

in two days he’d torn off the boards,

flattened out the dirt underneath.

until it was an empty frame

steps to nowhere

and she stood at the top of them–

shoulders jutted out straight

staring blankly at the bare joists–

no where to place her paws,

no where to lay and sunbake,

her whole world changed.

under that deck he found something of mine.

a gift

from one who knows me truly.

the thin beaded necklace

curled with dirt,

but still intact after

nearly

3 years.

when She gave it to me

i felt seen: “this is me

in a necklace.”

pink blue black green white

no one had ever read me so well,

(or maybe that was the cotton buds of love)

for three years it was gone

but come back now.

Why now?

I stare out the kitchen window

at the space where the deck used to be

I imagine stepping out onto the nothing

the weight of my body tumbling after

my falling foot.

its only two feet high

not even enough to require a railing

by the city

but the fall seems steep

like falling back into childhood

in the summers my dad used to play

princess audiobooks in the recliner

that sat on the deck

with me on his knee.

when i got bigger i would climb on the

railing, my dad furrowing

in protest.

dad’s rebuilding the deck now

rotten wood replaced

by pulpy plastic composite.