At Peace
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by Paul May
Barely dawn, the frogs and crickets wake me.Cold in my sleeping bag.
I hold my tent flap back and see him,
Squatting next to the fire.
His old hat with a new feather.
Simple boots, rawhide laces.
His pipe smoke mixes with the campfire's,
Then carries the scent of bacon into my tent.
It's cold. I have to pee, but I watch him,
Just sitting there,
His arms across his knees, watching the fire.
The bacon sizzles. He is at peace.
Later, I feel his strong fingers around my waist
The rock ledge is inches from my toes.
Autumn-painted treetops blanket the world below us.
I'm afraid, but safe. Breathless.
Over moonlit sand dunes on Lake Superior,
He floats a Frisbee with perfect aim.
We play for hours past midnight,
The moon is bright, and we cannot stop laughing.
Late that night I hear his voice, strangely serious.
"Be very still," he says.
A skunk wanders past the front of our tents.
We are terrified, thrilled, silent.
I remember these things,
Because my little girl is curled up in my arms.
I smell the campfire smoke in her hair.
Her fingers, sticky with marshmallows.
It is cold, and I hold her close to keep her warm.
The frogs and crickets will wake me first.
Maybe she will watch me watch the fire.
I will be at peace.
Paul read this poem, which he had sent to his Dad for Father's Day 2004, at the Memorial Service.
© 2008 The Shalem Institute.