By Sara Kandler
A trip up to the Cape
in early July
preposterous
says Mom
August is the time
my dear
to gaggle on Ballston
haggle at the flea market
pant up the cliff at Longnook
But this trip feels different
because it is
forty years hence
no low picket fence
dissecting the dune
buoys slung over the back rail
outdoor shower
bodies wet and naked
stark tan lines
We’re bringing you back
as promised
that’s why
I whisper
an inn
a pilgrimage
clandestine mission
your wishes
Pack tee shirts
toiletries
a talisman
Nestle you together
mounds of gray powder
heavy as clay
of clay
We hike far enough
find the spot
immerse ourselves
release you
Dad sifts into the dashing waves
reflecting the setting sun
Mom swirls in the wind
paintbrushes poised
singing
spirits free
and what of us
of me?
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