I spent the first 14 years of my life there,
the way you might hold a stone in your palm,
warm from the sun, solid and known,
smooth against the thumb of memory.
I walked to school,
Elm first, then Central—
we were a pack of kids from Indiana Street,
from houses close as kin,
the old porches sagging like smiles.
We trudged through deep snow in winter,
boots heavy with promise and frost,
waiting at the school doors,
huddled in clusters, our breath like smoke
from tiny factory chimneys,
chattering about holidays,
about the thick pages of school assignments,
and, always, our dreams—
small seeds tucked deep in the frozen earth.
Winter held me in its arms back then,
wrapped me in a white, muffled quiet.
Snow blanketed the town,
silencing everything except our laughter—
the world itself seemed softer,
like a sigh at the end of a long day.
Fridays were a joy,
riding with my dad to the A&P in Bridgeport,
the air in the store thick with smells
of ground coffee and fresh bread.
He picked out the best cuts of meat,
and I ran my fingers over cans and boxes,
letting the labels tell stories of faraway places
I could only imagine, back then.
Television was a portal, a kind of magic—
new voices filled the living room,
faces I’d never seen,
ideas I’d never thought to think.
The radio hummed, a constant companion,
telling us tales from the world outside
this small river town.
But melancholy drifts into my chest now,
like a fog rolling off the river—
my childhood is a distant shore,
fading into the blue-gray of time.
The streets I once roamed,
the wind curling through Buckeye and Hickory,
the rustling leaves whispering secrets
I can barely recall.
The people shaped me—
neighbors, aunts and uncles,
grandmothers next door who waved from windows,
and my mother in the kitchen,
her hands creating comfort
in the smell of morning bacon,
the late afternoon roast,
and evening desserts pulled from the oven,
sugared and golden like sunset.
I still feel the chemistry of Martins Ferry
burn in me like a slow ember.
It’s a fondness that lingers,
an invisible hand that guides my pen.
The streets, the people, the smells, the snow—
they still live in me,
sparking imagination,
the way a match strikes,
unexpected and full of light.
***Dedicated to Don Falbo, a barber in Martins Ferry, Ohio for 75 years.
Poetic Alchemist 