The Cabin

Today I’m going with my twin to visit our dad in upstate NY and memories of the old family cabin are splashing through my head like cold pump water. An invigorating sense of nostalgia cleansing me of today’s hardships. The cabin is no longer with us, it had to be sold. I used to go up every summer, but since my accident I haven’t been. I share memories with all the most important people in my life, of that tiny moth bitten room. Unbarring the windows and letting the rickety heap draw a deep awakening breath, smashing a watermelon in the stream and picking the sweet fuschia meat from between the rocks, cooking rudimentary meals of easy mac and peas on the old stove, dancing among the trees. I may not have been there in years, but the truth is I visit all the time.


The Cabin

Follow me through the goldenrod field
tufts of yellow flowers so tall
they brush your face.

Climb with me
in the giant pine castle
and spy out across the yellow sea
to the prickly tree grove
spined branches curl around
an old tire swing.

Come with me through the running forest
whisk past tree trunks
feet prickling in the pine needles
trip into the driveway
soft ground collecting us

Come wet your flushing skin
at the rusting pump
cold well water from far below
and we’ll dry in the sun
flicking hard apples into the road.

Let’s go down the crumbling slope
to the rocky stream
where strands of cool water
pick through the stones.

We’ll follow it to the big pipe
to trickle under the road
into a frog pond.

Or up to the big old edge tree
and the barbed wire
strung up between posts
like spiky Christmas lights.

And the rock tub
where we can sit in the stream
tiny fishes dancing
past our legs.

Tonight let’s venture into
the warm shadows
and watch the diamond dusting
of stars
spread across the heavens.

Follow me
into my memories
play with me
in the past.

It’s still with me.



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