Where it Sat

I don't live in the old house, but I know the road to turn down and where it sat and where the worst grassburrs were always at, where the barn was and where even bermuda grass wouldn't grow in the gravel-sand arc of its dragging tin door, where the garden grew best in the grey water wash, where okra, tomatoes and corn stood green, red and tall and where cucumbers, watermelons and cantaloupe climbed carelessly into the pen where the kids' calf was kept until it was gone one day, where the good water faucet was - a bit farther than a too-short hose from where the trash was burned smoking in the soot-choked thin corroding barrel beneath the big beanless mesquite, where the first board was just high enough to remind little brother of whose tree house it was up there.