that trickling water
goes somewhere, pushes
between smooth stones
decaying leaves
undulating stream
funnels through
all things but sun
that gravity exists
in memory moments
summer creek, wet feet
balancing on wobbly islands
holding boyhood time
until runnel becomes river
rushes away
when my daughter was young we flew a kite
from her wooden deck, bedroom balcony
she held the string, I watched wind
invisible thing
nearby leaves rustling, flapping
nylon snapping, waiting for release
to soar or sink, ever the question
on a day such as this
the two of us standing there wondering
what does it mean to fly away?
I let go, her twine wriggled through fingers
up and up it went
sun stopped for seconds
our fabric patch covering time
exhaling visible emotion
ink onto page
alive each night if
only for these moments
toes touch sheets happy
the hours before are done
no more plodding through city
streets in laced up leather
free naked now
words moving across the page
composition notebook
indenting with cursive letters
pressing down, scribbled lines
fragments of thought
searching for truth night after night
sometimes finding things
like an old Hot Wheels car in
the sandbox, pull it out
examine chipped paint
try to recall when it was lost
describe what it looks like
loose front tire, red Camaro
“this is it,” I think
to reclaim, touch memory
unearth myself, the buried parts
Let peals of laughter
echo off walls, sounds of children
on the stairs and in the halls
Let the whistle sound on playing field
boundless jumping up to run
touch the grass under morning sun
Let minds ponder questions
scientific method, formulas
angles, geometric lines
Let young voices take the stage
sing with power and persuade
light abound in fearless choir
Let us clear the way
for the young to own their day
our tomorrow gleaming bright
In the air I’m a kid, split second floating, suspended, before gravity tugs me back to the coiled elastic mat. Legs, torso, shoulders, body of pounds, my weight denting the flexible floor. Calve muscles support the landing, trembling energy moving like a feeble pogo stick. Is that all you’re gonna do, just sit there jumping up and down? My daughter asks. As if I have a choice, as if I could leap spontaneously, do a flip or twist. I smile watching her limbs lunging carefree, that song Riptide playing in the background, the one we both like. This is all I can do, but I won’t stop. I say like the middle-aged man that I am. Do a trick, come on, she cajoles. Deliberate, I push harder, hop higher, watch this, touch my toes in mid air. That’s your best? She laughs. I just grin, glad that I’ve fooled her, glad that she thinks there’s more in the tank.
He’s almost 8, my son lying next to me, his permanent smile mirroring my own. Is that Saturn? he asks, looking up at the sky. I ditched the tent’s cover, only transparent thin fabric between us and the universe. Am I trying to remember what 7 was like, or did I never grow up? It doesn’t matter, we are here, together, our fingers pointing at constellations, sometimes a plane flying off to cross the Pacific. We talk about other earths and aliens until he drifts into slumber mid-sentence.
As he snores quietly I read about Lydia Child, her quest to end slavery. I listen to the crickets, imagine camping without the tent, without freedom, following the north star to Philadelphia or New York or Canada. Then I’m asleep. I dream about walking deep in the woods, seeing a gray fox. I wake to the sound of rustling bushes. It might be 1am, click my flashlight on, sets of eyes reflect back from outside the tent. Two deer a few feet away nibbling grass. Pausing they stare at me, then trot off. Asleep again until maybe 4am, then Hudson has to pee. We totter out half-awake, an owl hooting nearby, the two of us in our pjs, little streams in the dark.
It’s morning, Hudson says at 7am. He’s snuggled up next to me in his sleeping bag, hair mussed. Good morning, kid, I say. We grin, no words, just love.
I turned twelve once
the party was chaotic
all boys tackling boys
football on the lawn
she is totally different
sitting by the pool
laughing with her friends
5’5 a girl woman
talks about Victorian houses
between ballet kitchen twirls
in the shower forever
singing Shawn Mendes songs
her door closed now
at night reading alone
wants a phone because
her friend has one
we watch Mamma Mia
imagine her in Greece
want to freeze time
keep us both young
I embrace it all
childhood has to go
teenager around the bend
beginning of the end
plant seeds in fields
knees in wet dirt
rabbits watch and twitch
sun and fog above
lunch bell starts slowly
come and get it
what they have harvested
the ones who meditate
they smile with peace
bow to each other
cut bread, scoop soup
some sit in silence
voices of children sing
small feet on earth
present moments at play
grateful for this day
I don’t go the movies because I’m afraid. My nephew tells me. My mind goes back to that evening in 7th grade when I watched Silent Night, Deadly Night, then read The Hobbit until dawn because I was too scared to sleep. Looking at him, I see that’s not what he’s talking about. I’ve been back to that theater once in the last 3 years, but never at night. He says. He doesn’t use the word shooting, the word that is on the news somewhere right now; shooting, shot, shots fired, mass shooting, school shooting. 2 dead, 9 injured, while watching Trainwreck, but nobody outside of Lafayette, Louisiana remembers. He was 14 then, a mile away, safe at home, but I look at him and see a veteran, a victim, afraid, maybe forever. Fatality, casualty, injured, with injuries, innocent bystander, survivor, relative of survivor, friend of survivor, community member, neighbor. The diameter expands, little, larger, largest, dots, spots, stains on the map, metastatic cancer.
