Home from Utah

by April Anderson

The fields swirled by

in rushing torrents of green,

sweeping away farmhouses

and lopsided shacks,

the pavement pulling me homeward,

but away from him.

I said I wouldn’t cry,

it was only two years,

and for a noble cause.

I said I wouldn’t cry,

but you have to

for someone

who pushed you on the tire swings,

who taught you how to laugh,

who interrogated every suitor.

You have to,

when you see your

big brother

grown up.

Photography by Elizabeth McPhie

Illustrated by Bryan Drury

Photo by Rachel Gray