Back in our twenties
when the cost of the ferry boat
and a sack of spaghetti fixings
was all we needed of adventure
Lynn would invite a friend or two
or three but never five or more
to come along on a trip to camp.
Her homemade cloth carrying bags
which could double as storm shelter if needed
stuffed mostly with cookies and books
were shoved under our feet for the crossing
and if we stopped
it was only to pee
and usually for me.
My memories of these excursions
drift further and further away
from the smell of the sea air
and the feel of winter cold sand beneath our feet
but my mind’s eye can still see her
Lynn
reaching deep into those duffels
for a handful of bulbs.
Was it every trip
or just a few times.
Did we all help
or watch from rockers.
I can see now
here in my dotage
her mother earth form
kneeling on the bluff
with a rusty shovel
lit from behind
by Camp Sunrises’
sunset.
Being there
for the planting
and plantings
and more
was all of the road I knew
and all of the journey I needed
until this spring…
when all these decades
and spaghetti suppers later
I finally got
to bend down
with the salty spring air
at my old lady back
and to say hello
for the first time
to Lynn’s daffodils.
