Colorado

We wound our way through pine-encrusted roads,

past the white paint that promised

restrooms and all the conveniences

that make roughing it pretty easy.

Our car settled, exhausted from its mountain climb,

in the middle of somewhere,

emptied its contents onto damp grass

of the mountain top Dad chose.

I don’t remember much of what we did,

just a cerulean crayon blue sky

that chased the snow up the mountain tops.

When you’re that far out,

you breathe spring water,

nothing like the heavy air of home.

We introduced our man-made tent to the field,

lassoed in by trees that climbed to the sun,

pointed out the stars at night.

I was old enough to know that there were no bathrooms,

but  childish enough to refuse to go—

what if a raccoon was watching—

so we drove into town every day for lunch.

Dad had no problem with it,

put his toilet paper roll on a stick like a hobo sack

and sauntered off into the woods.

I think I remember him whistling.

Smoke follows beauty, so

 dinner’s fire followed us instead of the air.

Hot dogs only taste that good when your day

has been spent throwing rocks into liquid crystal,

trying to splash your sister’s face.

The goldfish crackers were soggy,

someone spilled chicken soup in the box.

I never admitted that it was me.

And like the pokey little puppy,

I still got my dessert

when Mom showed us the strawberries

that were the size of our fingernails.

Then we drove home,

 days of dampness

lingering in our clothes.