Escanaba River

In dreams my father skatesthe Escanaba River.The ice hard frozen and dustedwith snow that swirlsghostly behind himas he flies breaknecktoward a sundownthat sets the pine and birch on fire.He’s lean in that way teens are,tugging his hat overa thicket of black hair --earflaps up, daring the cold.Blades bite the ice as he swaysinto a rhythm of greater speeduntil he pivots and backwardglides in a lazy “S”.

This was his glory!

There are days whenI superimpose myself in this past --momentarily I become the lord of time,the curator of somecataract memory –and there he is,largely unformed,neither father nor husband.As I meet him this way,our checkeredrelationship andestrangementis yet to be.So we walk companionablyto my grandparents’past yellow windows,cheeks and noses red and numband tightened from the frozen air.