Michaela Chairez

A grand magnolia tree

stretches its thick roots under the driveway.

My father wants it uprooted,

“It’s cracking our driveway.”

My mother wants it to stay,

“It’s so beautiful.”

So grand since the beginning.

Standing strong in front of an olive-green house.

Us three kids used to stick black olives 

on our thumbs.

We’d raise them over our eyes.

My grandpa told my mom I have eyes like 

his mother’s – really dark. 

We’d run through the sprinklers, 

around the tree, smelling of magnolias.

Our feet cracking on fallen leaves. 

The bottoms of our heels calloused 

like my mother’s and father’s hands.

Cartwheels and handstands,

we land on our bottoms,

lie down and look towards the sky.

We didn’t know of dreams 

in terms of future careers, 

but in clouds, shape-shifting 

and changing as they moved.