By Bonnie McMillen
Gramma in the morning, and all of us around the table. Summer days stretched ahead in skies of blue and white. Security of Mom and Dad right there. The old black Plymouth, the trunk full of fishing poles and worms. Cousins to chase around the yard. My brothers working on their cars and all my firsts still ahead of me, love, sex, marriage, births. My old hometown, the school, the church, the rest. The dirt roads and hobos eating sandwiches, talking politely to Mom and Gramma on the porch. They would insist on doing a chore. One sharpened scissors and lawn mowers. He came back every year, even made friends with Dad. His name was Harold Fleek, one year he didn’t come. We never saw him again.
Bonnie McMillen is a native of Bradford and spent her younger years playing around the Harry Emery airport on Dorothy Lane. While working as Director of Student Health at Pitt-Bradford, she became interested in writing poetry and short stories. This interest has continued into a busy retirement. Abecedarian, Dear Harry Emery Airport, Tales from the Female Crypt