A Child's Year—Chris Yokel
A retrospective poem looking back on the year through a child's eyes.
For more articles, videos, books, and resources about faith and art, visit RabbitRoom.com.
Chris is an Associate Professor of English at Bristol Community College in Massachusetts, and is an arts and culture writer whose works have appeared in publications such as, Tweetspeak Poetry, The Curator, The Molehill, and The Rabbit Room. Chris is also the author of several books of poetry, including his latest collection Winter Poems. In 2018 he helped co-found The Poetry Pub, an online community for poets. He enjoys walking in the woods, visiting coffee shops, and poking through used bookstores with his wife Jen.
A Child’s Year
Summer On those simmering July days we unfolded the kiddie pool in the morning. I remember its sky blue bottom, the animals adorning the sides, and my anticipation rising with the water. When it was full we’d dive in and flutter around in tiny circles for hours, or run pell-mell from the top of the yard and launch ourselves for knee-skinning plunges in twelve inches of water. By the end of the day it had collected a small flotilla of bugs, which flutter-kicked on into the night. Evenings, we’d bike up and down the street in the pink glow like packs of small gangsters, trying to keep the sun above the horizon by pure energy alone. I miss those days of pure imagination, when I was a cowboy, a soldier, a knight, an outlaw. By sacred pantomime, I transformed a picnic table into a covered wagon heading West, or a swing set into a rocket where, for a moment of joy before gravity took hold, I thought I could fly. The neighborhood was magic then— the lights winking on, the TVs chattering through the open windows, with the cicadas in the trees. We’d play on in the gathering dusk until Mom, haloed in the light of the kitchen window, called us home. Autumn Mid-September brought crisp skies and cooler weather-- afternoons we’d roll about the yard playing tackle football with the neighborhood boys, small heroes of the gridiron bearing grass-stained badges of honor, on our knees. Autumn meant long weekend rides into rural Massachusetts for cider and picking apples straight from the tree. We’d bring home big bags that Mom would slowly turn into crunchy treats, crisps, and pies. In November on Saturdays Dad and I would rake the yard until my hands were red and sore, until I was warm enough to work in just long sleeves. To let off some steam at the end of the day I’d take a flying leap into our gathered heap, and lay there for a moment submerged in the damp earthy smell, like a rabbit burrowed close to earth. Those were days of bright blue skies and cool air, the last glory of the year before winter. Sometimes we’d drive up into rugged New Hampshire to see the White Mountains roll in glorious color. Our own maple tree was always late to the party, but made up for its tardiness in a golden display. Mornings I’d wake up to see its leaves shining like manna on the ground. Winter Thanksgiving heralds the turn of the year to winter, a time to gather and celebrate as the days get shorter and colder, the trees letting go their last leaves, as the skies teased the first signs of snow. I remember the family gathered in the glow of the living room, sated with food and watching football. Later, when it was just my brother and I, we inaugurated the holidays with Home Alone. Then came Christmas-- the great glowing light of childhood. We’d make the journey out to Maciel’s Christmas Tree Farm, fell our prize, strap it to the roof to our sung strains of “O Tannenbum” and return home merry. The house was transformed, into red, gold, and glitter. Some nights I’d crawl almost under the tree. It was like a home, like a great glowing kingdom of joy, approaching close to something holy I could feel but not understand. That feeling came again in the snows that brought wonder to bleak January and February. We’d don snowpants, coats, gloves, and hats, and tumble out into the snowfall as it remade the world for a day. But sometimes I’d pause in the midst of the storm, the usual noise of the neighborhood muted, so quiet I could hear the hiss of the flakes, and in them, maybe, a still, small voice. Spring By late February winter has overstayed its welcome in New England. The landscape is a bleak picture of gray and white, our delight for snow Exhausted. Thus the watch for spring begins: new warmth from the sun, a fresh breeze, a muddy footprint in once frozen earth. I admit, I often hated the raw, damp weeks of March, restless for days of sunshine and play. But as rain gave way to April sun, and we shed our layers to feel fresh air on our pale skin, my young eyes wondered again, at buds breaking and curling into leaves, at dead ground gone green again, the feel of fresh dirt on my fingers, as we overturned the garden, at the cloud of pale pink blossoms on our cherry tree, and the spare, grand maple once again the green-robed guardian of our summer days.
Explore more of the Rabbit Room:
Photo by eberhard 🖐 grossgasteiger on Unsplash
This took me back. Thanks for this little travel through time into childhood.
For all those words, it sure read smoooth. And every word connected.