What no one sees are the apricots, the extras brought to share before we put in to the river. A few floorboards down, a couple in their fifties are romancing between the antlers and the water buckets. Oblivion, oblivious, obvious. How close those words share space. No matter which way we look, there they are–the couple in need of a room instead of a raft. The one thing we all have in common: no one wants them on their raft. Funny what gets overlooked when we are busy trying to overlook something else.
I’ve just returned from whitewater rafting with my offspring and my son’s future in-laws. Someone asked why would I jump from a perfectly good raft: because I promised I would.
In the beginning there was water. And it was good. It didn’t matter if you had no change of clothes or nothing but a shop rag beneath the truck seat to dry off with afterwards. You jumped in because you must. If you didn’t, fear gained the upper hand. We had taught our son and daughter from the very start: Don’t let fear pin you down. When you find water, remove your shoes and jump.
Coming back from rafting, good news waited in my mailbox. My book, Cracking Geodes Open, is in a new staging area. Proofs are on the way and if we like what we see, books will soon be in our hands. Yes! Thank you, Aldrich Press.
A poem from the book and first published in The Literary Bohemian:
Between Daisy and Lulu Pass
I’m not sure what to call
where he is. In Montana, anything not west
is back-east-of-here. But I need to fine tune
my directions-either north or south. I didn’t grow up
with such boundaries. I wonder
should he catch my thoughts, would he turn
and see I’m caught between memories. He wouldn’t know
of melted glaciers and craters of alpine heather, of the faint
wagon trail threading through 19th century fir to a legend
of a lake. I once spent a summer, searching
for that water. It was one hot blue day when I jumped in
with all my clothes on, imagining should I ever return, the skip
and holler from that day would still echo in the canyon. I want him
to hear that echo, I want him to make his own. Last time
I hiked this eroded path, he was what was gone.