Sand CastlesA Poem by Ken e BujoldOld friend I remember now your drawing lines in the sand, blueprint for the sandcastle we intended to build once we'd mastered the intricacies of the tide's mercurial manners. How we spent months and months detailing the turrets, exactly where each gun accorded maximum compatibility, synchroneity against any and all invaders. You knew your history, far more than I, all the world's rogues-- how Agamemnon breached Priam's walls while the watchmen slept (I drifted in and out on a cloud) when the Senones crossing the northern line at Allia sacked noblest Rome (the gulls' solstice feast), and Saladin's eastern horde swept David's wall and temple knights aside. Your memories of antiquity seemed bred into your bones, almost as if your mother's milk came from a godlier font than mine. You know I still can smell the heavenly twists she set down to carry us through the long siege of a summer storm, the chocolate chips in blackberry jam, washed down with a Dr Pepper.
I remember how the winter's turning brought us to our next enthusiasm. The summer of discovery, that one of us could hit. And how you eventually cracked the code and unlocked the mysteries from the back of a baseball card (opening up a whole other can of worms.) Epstein and Holtzman were not better than Jackson and Blue, not even close--but yes Finley was an a*s, we both agreed on that. Though I never understood your insistence I keep Flood from my Raleigh chopper's spokes, or why the five guys in robes should ever have consumed the spaces between innings you filled that long tragic afternoon the Pirates swept, when Clemente never showed (a bum leg I recall,) I've always been thankful. On the train coming home, that woman's indignant huff when you shouted, “ERA isn't worth a damn, it's meaningless!” I wonder if she ever knew just how right you were?
I haven't forgotten the New Year's Eve no one wants to remember. Your father, the bitterness of your laugh, “what a f****n' senseless way to go,” the morning you told me you had no intention of ever learning how to drive. That was when I first learned some aches can't ever be wiped away by boys' bantering insistence. When, if I had to put a finger on it, we first diverged. My path through the world would never confront the organic obstructions you seemed to have been born to.
The tides would carry us far away from the tidy sandcastles we'd built, the balls and strikes of life carried on, handing us wins and losses, stats of a different kind. New York, Vancouver, Tel Aviv, Singapore, Toronto, Toronto at different times. A marriage, a marriage, a divorce, a marriage, a divorce (two for you I heard), kids, no kids, a granddaughter, passed along the mother's grapevine. Occasionally a read, when one of us found our way into the daily news, added a bit of flesh to the bones of the ghosts we'd become. I didn't forget, I doubt you did either, even if it's four decades since we last argued the merits of ERA. You were right, it isn't worth a damn. An absolutely meaningless stat.
I'm sorry old friend, I missed your mother's funeral. Circumstances beyond my control had me far away in another land. My mother says you haven't changed, the same strident boy drawing lines in the sand, dreaming of sand castles to stand the test of time. I miss you, your mom's heavenly twists, the cold sweet rinse of a Dr Pepper, arguing why Holtzman was never as good as Blue.
Ken e Bujold © 2022 © 2022 Ken e BujoldReviews
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8 Reviews  Last Updated on October 20, 2022 Author
Ken e BujoldSomewhere in Ontario, CanadaAboutWriters write, it's what we do. Fish swim, woodpeckers peck... writers scribble (inside and outside the lines). more..Writing
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