- First appeared in Origins Journal
The crepe myrtles are loaded:
That’s what my father would’ve said.
Only he’d be describing
cherry trees —
when their near-breaking boughs
begged pickers for relief.
Every July on our vacation
he craved the sweet, dark fruit
from his Macedonian childhood.
He’d stop at roadside stands
then spit the pits out the car window.
We called him Daddy Cherryseed,
figuring he’d planted half the orchards
in Grand Traverse County.
Sometimes, he’d cut the engine,
glide in neutral
down those Northern Michigan hills,
thrilling us: flatlanders who believed
the Buick was driving itself.
Four flip-flopped kids
squirmed in the backseat
and one scrunched between parents,
we sought a cottage on Great Lake sand.
Couldn’t wait to inflate the inner tube.
Dad sang with heavy accent,
Everywhere we go, there’s a sign on the road:
Those trees in The Cherry Capital
more red than green,
like the crepe myrtles here in Atlanta,
more flower than leaf—
yes, they’re loaded: drunk
on their own deep pink,
blazoning summer along roads and driveways.
In all their glory, Mother would’ve said,
their heavy arms bowing down.
- Karen Paul Holmes