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That summer was sort of the last of its kind—
before most of my grandparents, grandaunts and uncles,
had passed on into the wild indigo mystery. Before I
crossed fully over into the worry-wonder
of adulthood of counting dollars and calories.
Mama handed me some
of the former and told me
to go buy some of the latter.
As I sleepy-stepped to the corner store
for powdered raspberry donuts
and chocolate milk—I knew it, too, somehow.
I sipped and licked my sugared fingers
strolling Davenport’s Pioneer Days
watching cowboys and wannabees getting loud
after kicking back a few, too early, pre-parade—
the sun still high, sprinkling my
nose and shoulders with youthful glow and freckles.
Soon after, I’d be resettling
on the other side of the Cascade Mountains,
and deeper into rugged teen terrain.
But it was oh-so-good to look around
and say goodbye to dust-filled trails
and small-town streets—to lick my fingers, savoring
the innocence already passing behind my dark eyes,
and for a day to feel younger than seventeen.
I wiped a tear before I got back
to Mama—handing her what was left
of the box of donuts, and what would be
just the beginnings of change.
© 2026 Jennifer Wagner
