a poem by Susan Arcady Davis 2010
Mom and I drove downtown
through the thunderstorm.
“I’ll drop you off in front of the coffee shop.”
“No thanks, I’ll walk.
I love the weather,” she said.
And I thought of the worms,
and how, when it rained,
she would say,
“Kids! Get your raincoats on!
Where are your boots?
Go outside
and play with the worms
in the gutter!”
And we did.
There were earthworms
floating in the gutters,
flushed out of their safe holds
under the lawn
into the street.
And we squatted next to the curb
in our yellow hooded raincoats
and our rubber boots,
little kids hunting dead,
drowned worms.
We picked them out of the water,
and took them inside to Mom.
I don’t know what we did with them after that,
patted them into mud pies, I suppose.
Years later I thought
she had sent us worm hunting
to empty the house,
that small house,
of its
many children,
so she could have
a moment
of peace.
But the truth is
she just loved
the weather.
And she wanted us
to love it,
too.
