I nibble the tips of my thumbs; the knuckles of my interlocked fingers
\nare out of focus, doubled over each other. The scent of my hands,
\ntaste of my thumb tips reminds me of puffed wheat and cool milk
\nin the morning when I was a kid. I tip my still-interlaced hands away,
\ntip them palms-up, look down into the cup they form, and remember
\nspring water illuminating my palms where my interlocked fingers looked like
\ngears intermeshed, ready to spin the water into a froth. In my mind
\nI take a sip, then plunge my face in and slake my thirst
\nin the fresh wild water: I can feel the reindeer moss spongy under my
\nknees, the breeze cooling the back of my neck, hear a whiskey jack
\nwhistling his repetitive ode to Canada while a woodpecker does a
\npretty good impression of a Gene Krupa drum solo that made me
\nhomesick for nothing to do but see my girl, five hours away by plane.
\nJust today, a half-century later, she tells me that when we walk
\nhand-in-hand, it makes her feel like she’s eighteen again;
\nand I’ll tell you it makes me feel like Big Man on Campus.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Memories of long ago to give a pretty good impersonation of time travel. (#1046) Continue reading