By Skylar Christoffersen
in my grandfather’s garden
he nurtures Hope
in the back right corner
where the rabbits can’t reach
he sows Faith next to hope
i think it fitting–
they accompany each other,
twisting together in one breath
after all,
what is Hope without Faith?
you can’t do anything if you don’t believe
in the front of the garden
Grandfather holds a watering can
filled with all our insecurities,
the things that consume us–
my cousins and me
he pours over happiness
its own plot
by the little white fence
my grandfather is so happy;
he doesn’t grin ear-to-ear
a softer smile–
evidence:
dim laugh lines
crows feet in hidden corners
a content peace
that comes with knowing that you’ve achieved
everything there is
he desires nothing else in life
when we fly in,
my cousins and me
he tells us stories
of how he traveled from China
over a sea of blue knitted yarn
in a boat made out of poker cards
grasping a suitcase full of dreams.
we sit in a row
on high bar stools
and grow fat on
Grandfather’s cooking–
pistachio shells;
and Faith;
and Hope;
and everything he grows;
(in that magnificent garden)
where the rabbits can’t reach
we let the juice of trust
dribble down our chins
eat peeled slices of loyalty
we are not good enough
to learn the art (yet)
so we feast and observe
my grandfather has a garden
his hands are wrinkled and tanned with honey-yellow sun
he reaches for the stems
of Hope and Faith and new beginnings
Skylar Christoffersen is from San Francisco, California. Her favorite book is The Secret History by Donna Tarth, and in her free time (apart from reading!), she loves playing tennis or piano. She has been previously been honored with two Scholastic Gold Keys and an American Visions Nomination. She is an alumna of the Iowa Young Writers Program and the Kenyon Review Young Writers Workshop.
Hot Pot Magazine 