Writing on the Deck at 55 Mountain Fern Drive
By Shawn R. Jones
The small orange sliding board
has been sitting there
fifteen years.
I still see my daughter
walk up its blue ladder
in her purple coat and
pink, and lavender hat.
She is about four.
I look over at the
rusted snowmobile.
My son lifts its gray cover
and reaches his small hand inside.
A swarm of wasps whiz
from under its shiny red hood.
My son yells and joins them in flight.
Black framed glasses fly.
His sister cries for him.
I stare at the four-wheeler,
wrapped in worn tarp.
Debris from each season
lines its blue wrinkles.
My son walks up the red stoned driveway,
helmet in hand and head down.
He ran the quad into a tree,
showing off for a couple boys his age.
He is ashamed.
My eyes avert to the rock pit.
Yellow and blue flames
move like Hula dancers at dusk
as marshmallows crust over
bent twigs, like singed
pussy willows.
Charred goo sticks to our lips.
Brown faces glow with delight.
Snakes slither
from the pit of warm rocks.
But we do not worry.
We are not afraid.
The night is too perfect.
I stop writing and
walk back in the house.
It is quiet.
Our children are grown.
My husband and I
come up alone now.
We browse antique shops and
examine zithers, Roseville pottery,
vintage watches, and signed photos
of living and deceased stars.
We dine at Piggy’s
and enjoy foods
our grown children tell us
we should not eat.
We walk by the lake
and take pictures.
Butterflies are shy and
fireflies pose in midair
as black bears
fumble through trashcans
on the side of a wooded road.
In winter, we play cards by the fire
and swap secrets like candy
as snow piles up outside for hours.
But we do not worry.
We do not regret.
The night is still perfect.
