Wednesday at five.
Nancy and I sit
on the berm
at the edge of the beach.
Damp in our suits,
sharing binoculars.
Scanning north,
our eyes strain
for a glimpse of the Hudson.
Rolling dust curls,
with Dad inside.
Winged,
yellow Hornet.
Sun flashing off chrome.
Now there! Now gone.
Bare feet
race across late afternoon grass,
tiptoe over
poking driveway gravel,
spin through high-noon sand
to the top
of the road.
We’re not allowed past our blue mailbox,
so we giggle and dance
in the shimmer
of an August barbeque.
Dust wallows skyward
from behind
the highest hill
we know.
Arms outstretched, we jump
at it, waving
to the flying machine
beyond our eyes.
It gobbles up
the summit,
then coasts to a stop.
Black sunglasses, silver hair,
and Jesus,
steadfast on the dash.
Four thumbs push
the chrome button to trip
the latch,
dispelling Sunday sadness.
Old Spice and
brown-bagged licorice pipes
pull us into
white work-shirt arms.
Lean, lanky legs slide
from the green nylon seat;
brown wing-tips slip,
sinking into
retirement sand.
We clutch and hug
his warm, calloused hands.
Laughing,
he lifts us, dry and dusty, to
sit on a fender.
We squint at the sun
and
the highest hill we know.
Tousling our hair,
he leaves us smiling;
wing-tips clouded
with happiness.
Thorax fender lights
blink red
and
off.
Facing backwards,
we roll past
the blue mailbox,
toes dragging
through zig-zag tire sand.
Honking horns round the bend
into the shade
of suppertime.
Every Day Writer 