Indelible Marks I

It's been nearly ten years, old man, since last we talked.
You weren't old then, of course.
You were far too young for the fate that met you.

Either way, ten years has passed.

I see us scratching our heads, staring at your pumpkin,
Behemoth that she was.

You scratched because you wanted to move 400 pounds of her to Fredericton the day after your daughter's wedding.
We scratched because of you, and because of the awe in which we held you.

I had ruined your most promising onions that day.
Eager to please you, I'd zealously washed them, and peeled them back,
Taken off their papery exterior to show off their dark red skin, ruining them.
You reproved me in your gentle, funny way,
Taught me the importance of their cracked and dry covering.

You gave me tomatoes that day that I placed in my dorm window,
And ate with relish as they ripened.

Ten years and I still cry when I think of you.
Luckily, I still smile, too. And laugh. And love.

I wonder what you'd think of changes, how you'd react to new situations.

Some nights your laugh still carries up the river.

Who knew mowing the lawn after dark could be so emotional?