Dear 2903 Davidson,

No one needs twelve rosebushes. No one. You bled heat in the winter and in the summer you clutched it so tight that it felt as though you were built on a vent of Hell, itself. Your windows were stupid and in all the wrong places. Your backyard was eternally unruly and unmanageable, and I think that secretly you laughed at our pitiful efforts to tame it.

I held a memorial for my father within a month of moving in. I placed my mother’s ashes next to his 9 months before moving out. In between my children grew mostly up, we marked their progress on your kitchen wall. I grew mostly up there, too, my progress was marked in subtler ways – an endless number of sleepless nights, of watching the world dawn morning through your kitchen window, of occasional refuge taken in your back bathroom. Sometimes it was the only place in the world where I felt safe.

We went from homeschoolers to public schoolers to unschoolers, mostly in your dining room. The Easter Bunny, Santa Claus and even the Great Pumpkin were frequent visitors, until they weren’t anymore. I spent one summer sending the kids out front to play so I could sneak cigarettes around back. Every May people would stop their cars out front to take pictures of the clematis vine. (It was fucking gorgeous.)

Nicky got a fork stuck in the bottom of his foot once, while carrying his dinner dish from living room to kitchen. (“Stick a fork in it, it’s done” will never have quite the same meaning.) Khy grew up across the street from his best friend. Stormy never wanted to live there in the first place, but she eventually came around.

They all three gave up their training wheels, eventually.

Your deck was the perfect place for that above ground pool we finally bought, and in that way we made our truce, you and I, over the summer heat. I miss your soft carpet. I miss the Lazy Susan style cupboard for canned goods. I miss the black linoleum in the kitchen that never, ever looked dirty. I miss the smell and feel of home.

But I won’t miss the rosebushes. Not at all.

Khyron Patrick, last month

My beautiful boy, eldest son and heir to the throne, my warrior with a poet’s heart, long and tall and newly fifteen (I want to hyperventilate just typing that); I plan to write a letter documenting the past (crazy, crazy) year of his life, punctuated by goofy pictures of fleeting moments captured on pixel, but the picture discs are all packed up and I am currently crazy with the move. I can’t even get a super current photograph this morning, because the birthday boy himself is still asleep just now and by the time he gets up there will be doings; friends and cake and video games (his wish for this birthday, two big screen TVs in the living room hooked up to two Xbox 360s) and presents and I’ll find myself back out in the garage and out of the way, pricing items for tomorrow’s garage sale.

Khyron Patrick, 6th birthday party

So the sentimental outpourings of my heart when I think of this nearly-man who is my son will have to wait a bit. But I do, at least, have a poem to share. It’s going to make me cry, too, because that’s just how I am about these things.

Sentimental Moment or Why Did the Baguette Cross the Road?
by Robert Hershon

Don’t fill up on bread
I say absent-mindedly
The servings here are huge

My son, whose hair may be
receding a bit, says
Did you really just
say that to me?

What he doesn’t know
is that when we’re walking
together, when we get
to the curb
I sometimes start to reach
for his hand

Dads, Daughters and Dandelions
by Timothy J. Buchholz

The first days of spring
Sunshine, little girls and dandelions
will always be very special to me.

Memories of my little girl
following along behind her Daddy,
awed at the wonder of nature,
the wonder of the world.

And her cries of delight
at discovering the beautiful little yellow flowers
that would spring up all over the lawn and garden
at the first signs of spring,
seemingly overnight.

There is nothing that can compare
with the sounds of delight,
and the wondrous look in the eyes of a child,
as they gather these treasures,
as a gift to those they love most.
A special time.

But, as with all things,
Reality sets in,
and wanting your daughter
to learn of things of nature and the world
you explain to her that these pretty flowers are weeds,
weeds that spread,
and are a nuisance to the gardener and homeowner.

The look you get should be censored
and no amount of logic can convince her
that dandelions are anything but
the most beautiful flower in the world.
And after many lovely bouquets from that little girl
with that special look in her eyes,
you begin to think so, too.

Life goes on
you continue fighting dandelions
though not so vigorously
once in awhile allowing a few to survive
and even pretending you don’t see
her blowing the seed pods in the air.
Content to know the little aggravation caused you
is worth the happiness it brings her.

She’s a young lady now
maturing
blossoming in her own right
caught up in the challenge
of going from teen to young adult
and sometimes you feel
left out, passed by.

Today
a beautiful sunny early spring day
driving down the street,
I saw two little girls on a hillside
picking bouquets of dandelions
and as I passed by
I heard their delightful cries
and saw the wondrous look in their eyes.

And in my eyes there were tears as I thought
Why does the wonder flee,
the look disappear,
why can’t they keep it forever?

A short time later I related this feeling to my daughter
and she looked at me, smiling -
gently touched my shoulder and said
“Daddy, I won’t do that.
I won’t lose that feeling.”

And as I looked in her eyes
I saw that special look,
that look of wonder
and suddenly I knew what sometimes isn’t spoken.

There will always be
a spot in her heart full of Spring,
Sunshine,
Dandelions,
and Me.