sensory memory

I nibble the tips of my thumbs; the knuckles of my interlocked fingers
are out of focus, doubled over each other. The scent of my hands,
taste of my thumb tips reminds me of puffed wheat and cool milk
in the morning when I was a kid. I tip my still-interlaced hands away,
tip them palms-up, look down into the cup they form, and remember
spring water illuminating my palms where my interlocked fingers looked like
gears intermeshed, ready to spin the water into a froth. In my mind
I take a sip, then plunge my face in and slake my thirst
in the fresh wild water: I can feel the reindeer moss spongy under my
knees, the breeze cooling the back of my neck, hear a whiskey jack
whistling his repetitive ode to Canada while a woodpecker does a
pretty good impression of a Gene Krupa drum solo that made me
homesick for nothing to do but see my girl, five hours away by plane.
Just today, a half-century later, she tells me that when we walk
hand-in-hand, it makes her feel like she’s eighteen again;
and I’ll tell you it makes me feel like Big Man on Campus.