The backyard of my youth was in the heart of North Portland. Green and large with life, boxed in, hidden. It housed my father’s woodshop, a boat, a wild cocker, and the garden. The garden that my father fenced in post by post and seeded. Each section divided in order that the proper amount of light and moist would touch down.
It was a masterpiece.
He built a corner entirely devoted to the sun complete with two benches engraved each with his daughter’s names,
mine misspelled.
He and my mother would spend entire weekends in the yard, deep in dirt, talking and laughing along to the radio
blaring classic rock.
I remember that yard so clearly.
I remember its beginning without an end.
I remember the shorts my dad wore, and my mother’s torn Oregon Zoo tank top. My dad’s huge flip flops and my sister running around bare… and me
in the sun trying to construct a time machine out of a cardboard box, desperately trying to find my way out.
Mostly though, I remember my name carved, Noel.