Front Porch Review
A literary magazine for the young at heart and mind

We took a bus to the arboretum,
climbed a willow tree and talked. We
wandered until we found statues.

We let our fingertips brush
their copper bumps and we felt
their lips and nostrils and ears and his tie

and her collar’s rose, the folds of her
skirts, anything we could read
like the blind, letting the bumps

flow and lift and roughen our hands.
We saw the swans, we touched the grass.
We sat on a flat rock and dipped our feet in the

cold creek. Which of us was innocent?
Which of us was unforgiving?
And the rose garden, the moment

when the axes met. Lying on the warm
summer grass, smelling what was
to come. Elated, ethereal, blessed,

as if just we two dogs, alpha and beta,
could eat the world.

By Eliza Calllard

Eliza Callard’s childhood perceptions and memories were sharpened by the belief that she would die young from cystic fibrosis. By surprisingly reaching her 40s, she had to let go of the idea that all memories must be preserved and all friendships last forever. She is grateful for the friends and family she has, right now, in these moments. Her web address: Eliza Callard