When I was young,
around seven or eight,
we ran through the woods
To the creek, to skate.

The trails we took,
we knew too well
carved into our brains
like a fairy tale.

But unbeknownst to us,
at the time, at least,
the tolls of a stroke
on Daddy’s strong chest.

The land we had
divided and sold,
But memories remain
in stories we told.

Now the adult, with
three kids of my own,
we trek down to the creek
in skates of our own.

The Kellys and the Van Zyls,
they were all over the ice
chasing a hockey puck
they wanted to slice.

We kept to our side,
the back half of the lake,
attempting figure-eights
we couldn’t quite make.

Growing tired and weary
of seeing each other fall,
we opted for the woods
to dig out baseballs.

Struck during the summer
by two opposing teams,
the balls sunk deep,
caught below now frozen beams.