The Roots

Like the roots of the eggplants in my garden
My toes curl into the dirt.
I can look up and imagine that the sky is all that exist. ...
The suns heat seeps through my hair
While granules of dirt cling to my bare knees and elbows
Crouched next to green fuzzy stalks and upturned faces
I feel this hum through my palms
Lulling and content
The old man next door
His footsteps crunching in blue afternoon gravel
On his way to ask if he can pick the persimmons from our tree. 
Again.
My mother, in the house
The water running, her hands soapy
Hips swaying slightly to the radio.
My cousins, miles and miles away
Where I used to live
Running through the sprinkler in old clothes
Laughing and hitting and tripping each other
Hiding when my aunt opens the door to avoid chores
My father, in a separate house,
Cooking and forgetting, grease splatters on his white shirt from Goodwill
My sister, at a restaurant, ordering desert first
Burping loudly, while the waiter
accidentally falls in love with her open smile
And warm brown eyes.
A friend, sitting on her bed in a small room,
Strumming her guitar, never singing her own songs
So many, many
I can feel all your numbers
They swell into one being
I am enveloped.