Their kitchen windows face the street and all
summer long, we hear them calling us up
for lemonade. No one has to buzz in
or wait for someone to open a door
so every afternoon, we stampede up
two flights of stairs and make ourselves at home—
drape our sweaty bodies over the arms
of the couch, take turns reaching into the
back of the freezer for ice cubes to slide
across our arms and cheeks and necks. Their hand
towels stained with the tomatoes they’re either
picking or slicing or canning; their hands
smelling like dirt. Says the best compliment
is when we ask for advice and, somewhere
in the listening, find the answer in
-side ourselves instead. Once, I fell asleep
in front of their fireplace and they covered
me with the blanket they were still knitting.
Amanda Roth is a writer, editor, and multimedia artist. Her writing is published or forthcoming in West Branch, Poetry Northwest, Fairy Tale Review, HAD, Portland Review, and elsewhere. She lives near Seattle with her family. Online at www.helloamandaroth.com