Forgotten Friends

Walking around the house, I stepped up the low end of the cement wall
just beyond the spot our swing set stood 30 years before
and climbed the slope, my heart faintly thumping.
Under radiant sunbeams a prim garden shed, with a proper coat of paint,
greeted me with taunting instead of the small wood shack.
A shack so dirty, my siblings wouldn’t think of entering,
making it a perfect palace for a barefoot peasant of six.
Afternoon sun once poured upon the tin roof, spilling over the worn path
like a royal carpet, just to welcome me into its shelter.
I kept my treasures there, things mama would have thrown out.
A perfect blue jay feather, half a robin shell, 2 skeleton keys,
and the doll I’d found in the chicken coop.
Many months were spent rubbing the black spotted legs with my wet thumb,
wishing the stains would wipe away as easily as the dirt from my bare feet
did upon the white washcloth each night.
In the fading light I walked away, guilt still stinging the girl,
who’d left her precious doll when we’d moved,
afraid my sisters would laugh at her ugliness.
A lump rose in my throat, now, I could never make amends.