Remains (Part II of "Recall")

There's a tree in the backyard
that hasn't grown something green
since you were an idea.

Your parent talks about how they used to climb up
into their imaginations 
and look for name brand shoes and cereal.

They talk about looking for God
and not seeing Him when their parents fought
over money and some woman's name.

You open the blinds in the kitchen
and notice the tree standing straight up,
bitten by time and weather.

The back porch extends wide and out,
far enough to see the rain beat off the red-painted wood,
dancing to the sound of spring.

You think you will never be as strong as your parent.
It's the most honest truth you've accepted
since your Sunday baptism.

What lifts your heart is the expectation
of you being stronger ; you giving more life to theirs 
than nostalgic youth could ever give anyone.

They promise you will produce trees beyond their seeds,
outgrow their cold walks
and hot, school bus rides.

They expect you to expect more
after taking everything a step closer to the top
where when you jump,

so does everyone else
because you decide to use wings and ingenuity. 
You decide to fly.

You decide to regard 
what's bursting
underneath contentment.

Remember what they gave you,
not just what they didn't.
Your deliverance     will deliver both. 

-Calvin W. Pennywell Jr.  (2022)