Once again it was that time of year,
To plant, to mow, to set the dogs in rear.
For a month or two we would be gone
A time too short, but for Mum too long.
“The maid,” she’d say, “will care for the dogs.
I hope she doesn’t feed them like hogs,
as you’re so prone to do.”
With that, we packed and scattered through
To the truck left running in the yard.
Before noon we were a third there.
“Oh how I hope to see it soon,” I stared.
Out of my window were the grasses so well known
That each blade had a name, like Matt, Tom, or Joan.
And that sign still hung above them all;
“Welcome to Milburn Place: Closed for the Fall!”
It had been up since the early Twenties, or so Mum said,
Left there after the great man himself lay dead.
“Why do they not take it down?” I asked for the hundredth time.
“It’s their choice, Hon, not yours or mine.”
It was sad to see and worse to know
That Mrs. Milburn couldn’t let go
Of the only one her heart would know.
Yet, every year, with loving arms, she’d welcome Mum, me, and Flow.
We’d go camping, riding, even biking off road
In nothing but our trunks, something special Grandma sewed.
Even with the adventure we’d take,
I could feel Mrs. Milburn’s life begin to shake,
To tumble, out of control, until a smile creased her face
And we’d have our last summer at old Milburn Place.
