Strawberry Sundaes
I spent my lawn-mowing pay on
strawberry sundaes
made with Bee Bellary’s blue-eyed
daughter, until
their house burnt one holiday morning.
Everyone lived
but her braceleted friend visiting that
weekend.
From my father’s porch across the
road, I watched
her calico find the bent apple
tree branches
with their broken blood and green
lights. My hands still
smelled like last night’s gasoline
mix from filling the tank
near the 3 small graves at the
back of the church, unlocked
in heady teen times but that June
its doors nailed shut
because the Lewis brothers hid there,
boozed and stinking
after they drowned the one-armed
cabbie from away.
It’s been 20 years, an all-night
flight, a long, fickle drive.
Your eyes are faded to the colour
of ocean; your cheeks
are red like the syrup you spooned
over scoops of vanilla
for me. Do you remember the feel
of the rug beneath the pews?
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Jocelyn Williams is an academic and creative writer who has taught literature at universities in Eastern and Western Canada. She was born in the Maritimes but lives in the Prairies and continues the conversation about women’s texts, national narratives, trauma, and body.