His Little Red Dump Truck
by Odin Roark

Oh, how he looked forward
To the daily recall once again.

How squeaky the wheels,
The hand scooted truck
Of his youth.

Through bush and flower cover,
He pushed his little boy dreams,
Shovel-scooping some earth,
Loading up the bed,
Continuing to the berry patch,
Dumping,
Hosing down,
Watching air bubbles rise,
What he now understood as the forever breathing earth,
The inescapable oneness of everything.

What precious reminders those squeaks.
Perhaps but echoing memories, his mind-friends waiting their time,
While he sucked pureed peaches through a straw
And prepared for pill time.
“Make the most of what’s left, right?” he’d tell anyone that’d listen.

Such remembrance those little purple capsules brought,
Letting him crawl back among the bushes again,
To be at one with his truck,
With the simple earth still honoring him as friend, hero, a somebody…

The nurse knew.

She always nodded.

They’d smile.

“Innocence is good,” she’d say.
“Especially before my nap,” he’d respond.