Deep cracks and ridges
in the brownie tree
hold the smell of Bud Light
and the sound of Linda Ronstadt.
Sturdy branches are imprinted
with giggled handprints of playful screams,
and footprints of tios holding piñatas.
Roots grab deep into the ground
of my ancestors and lost pets,
keeping my buried toys and old shoes.
We left our pieces in the front yard,
in the brownie tree.
