The same highway every year
identical parcels packed every year
black, blue, green, orange sleeping bags
and the same jerking in the diesel truck
from the boat being pulled behind.
What is it about this trip?
When does the same journey become
ritual
or tradition?
Do we decide these for our family’s?
At what point do the roads become
so familiar that I could drive them
with my eyes closed…
Lemons and limes roll around the floor
boards of the truck-
the bags torn open and this is only the beginning…
The memory of what is created with my children
Is something I have grown to love over the years
Lots of preparation and something is always
forgotten–
Gratefully, its never been a child
Seven trips to the store, five coolers
four bags of food and 12 towels
Every year this trip comes and goes
excited and happy, 95 degrees
and my heaven on earth
feeling weightless in the water…
the sun breaks through the windows
casting light across my bare legs
in a matter of days, the same sun will
be shining across my face
on the drive home…