A Summer Memory

A Summer Memory September 30, 2014

for Maggie and Lewis


As the dimming fall welcomes me back, a summer memory feeds me still.

We have risen with the sun, the smell of toaster waffles,
and the demand that I read to you.
Last night’s bedtime story put me to sleep too soon.
So we clear legos from the couch,
and return to lands of make believe,
armed with a light cotton blanket and coffee.

We move from the cool house through the neglected garden.
I can barely make eye contact with the tomatoes.
They too have somehow forgiven me and volunteered anyway.
Past collaborations must be remembered in their bones.

Onward we go, downhill, picking up speed, encouraged by running dogs.
Today we belong not to schedules, not to chapter books or tomatoes.
We belong to the lake.
We leave clothes and a few dogs on the dock
and launch ourselves into the familiar miracle of warm water.

There we are, lying on a rippling bed,
comparing our ability to inflate our lungs
and see our matching toes.

There we are, bodies almost resting now,
facing illuminated clouds
and shadow puppet tree tops.

There we are, imaginations ever reaching skyward until
floating hands touch by accident
and hold on purpose.

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