We drove down Da Vinci today
To see if the Magnolias were in bloom.
Speeding down the hill, I hold my breath—
Holy Mecca, Childhood Haven,
Stomachs sinking with anticipation.

The fragrance tickles my nose—I can almost
Smell it. We turn the corner, I crane my neck.
“If the Magnolias are in bloom, I want a picture,” I say—
A picture, I’ll try to capture it all.

As children, we fit ourselves between
The two reaching trunks of her glory.
Feather-soft pink petals—I know pictures can’t capture
The beauty of flowers and childhood.

Whether or not the new owners wanted us there,
Trespassing be damned—
In that house is every piece of our
Living, breathing soul. Unimaginable that we cannot return.

We drive down the hill—the tree is bare,
But the house still stands the same as we left it:
The sign our grandparents stuck in the ground,
The birdbath, the perennials, the Magnolia Tree.

I wish I could step right into that house—
The house that is my home. My name
Is not on the deed, but it is written on the walls,
Etched in the brick and the foundation.

He parks his car in front of the Magnolia Tree.
I know that my body can’t fit between the trunks anymore,
But if I could, I would squeeze, squeeze,
Squeeze through the trunks, squeeze myself back in time.

I would try to recreate the picture—mother takes me in her arms,
Squeezes me, to seal the picture that is etched to my rib—
Memorialize that Magnolia Tree, feather-soft pink petals.
Grab them and touch them and smell them.

Feather-soft pink petals slipping through my fingers—
Holding my mother, pose for the picture,
Frozen in time, slipping through my fingers—
Springtime of our lives slipped through our fingers.