Father's Day

A young lad,

wearing a red, plaid shirt,

the sleeves torn off,

and an early summer tan,

swung a stick as hefty as his leg.

He kicked at the sand on the path

along the lazy, drifting river.

He shouted out for his dad to come see.

His father, the image of the boy

in years yet to come,

obliged.

The older brother,

a few paces up the path

shouted, too.

A triangle-shaped thingee –

come look.

And then as I approached the mom,

hands on hips,

standing,

waiting,

looking at her boys.

There’s a lot to see when they’re young,

I said.

Oh yeah, she said with a laugh,

as if I were understating the case.

I was, but perhaps not entirely

in the way she was thinking.

I had in mind more of what

I had just seen walking along

the sandy path at my age.