What memories are made of

Morning mist upon the lake.
At this hour, only the loons are out.
We head off across the bay,
canoe, paddle, pajamaed boy and me.
Stowaway snail.
Lily pad stems are tested for size and strength.
He’ll remember heaving rocks into the water –
and awe when a skipped stone defies gravity eleven ripply times.
Cutting through the mirror water, our canoe doesn’t run out of gas like the motor boat will later this afternoon.
I work against the wobble as my point man drags his paddle behind him, watching the wake.
He’ll remember the taste of burnt marshmallows,
spelling his name in sparks against the darkening sky.
Finding the missing puzzle piece,
being old enough to turn the BBQ propane tank on – and off again.
Winning at cards.
The canoe bottom scrapes up an old public boat launch,
parking by braille.
We draw with sticks in the sand at the side of the unknown road,
look for cornflowers, peek into cottage backyards.
He’ll remember the glow of the mountain moon,
spooky nighttime wood cabin creaks.
Taking a swim instead of a shower.
I’ll remember bright blue baseball pajamas running full tilt towards me,
Queen Anne’s Lace waving him on,
in the still of an unwoken morning
down a sunny dirt road deep in bear country.

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2 comments so far

  1. Lynn on

    Oh so beautiful! This might be my most favourite of all your poems to date.

  2. moosilaneous on

    Brava!!


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