It’s summer, it’s evening, but it’s not warm and it’s not dark
as we take our usual constitutional. I am still
not enamored of the white dry sand gone cool under
my feet. Maybe two years before I would sit rigid
in the dead center of the blanket, and scream to wake the dead
if this sand got near me. It is still not my favorite kind
of sand, loose and prone to fly up into my face and hair.
I like the coarse, dense band that straddles the line between
loose and saturated. Like brown sugar. It is better for running
full tilt willy nilly looking back only to see that my father
is still visible. We do this – my tearing ass his steady strides – whenever
the need is as palpable as the rippling heat from the car hoods
in the middle of the afternoon. We go. We are escape artists,
my father and I. And for now, motion is the getaway vehicle.