Remember when daddy fell.
It was by the lake, in the sand.
He sort of slipped into it, easily,
slow as an hourglass down
the slope leading to the water.

We caught him.  No body hurt.
Nothing unusual for the old.
Had he been tending to lament,
our deaf joking, poking fun
denied him that.  We quickly

picked him up, brushed off
the sand and the edge of sadness.
After all, it was a sunny day.
I can still see him sitting
where we put him, on the deck

overlooking the lake, overlooking
the happy noise of the rest of us, swimming–
how he waved his hand, his eyes
squinting, squinting out a small
wetness, surely from a grain of sand.




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