J.W. Wells State Park

Crisp blue sky, bright low sun. The creek twinkles
to the shore over stones and through culverts.
Fire pits lit through the days and nights.
Smoke-filled air wafts, permeates everything.
All weekend, you smell of s’mores & mosquito dope.
Get on your bike and peddle your freedom.
To the rock cabin! To the beach! To the swings!
“Give me an underdog, Tam! I want to go high!”
“Me next!,” comes the cacophonous chorus of the tribe.
To grow up camping at Wells is the definition of idyllic.

***

Driving along the narrow campground roads,
the lots where our trailer had been stressfully
backed in to, leveled, unpacked into a home,
are now engulfed in tall grass waving in the breeze.
The campfires have died, the rusty rings
a barely visible reminder of those who gathered there.
The roof has rotted and fallen from the rock cabin.
I pause in the parking lot where you taught me to drive
before you got too sick.
Walking through the unmowed field,
past the shell of the broken merry-go-round,
I carry their ashes to the shore and let them go.
The gray dust swirls and sinks, set free.