I remember
my mother taking my older
sister and I to a park by the
ocean.
We would jump from the car and run over the
dunes and down to the scrag of a beach looking for razor clams and
conch pouches.
We would find
moon-jellies and toss them back and forth, feeling their
sandyspaceslime seep into our fingers.
After a while our mother would call us for
lunch and we would rinse our hands in the salty water and run over to the shade where she sat with our sandwiches and
Capri-Sun juice boxes.
We would sit, my mother
with her back to the trunk of the large tree, and eat, my sister and I telling Mom all about the things we had found and she would listen and be even more excited about our discoveries than we were.
When I had finished my
sandwich and wiped the
peanut butter from my lips with my arm, I would
scramble up the tree behind my mother.
She and my sister would talk of other things, but I was a few feet above them, high off the ground
I thought, working my way out the long deep-grooved bark.
I would continue to climb higher until I found a spot where I could see some light through
the curling umbrella of gray-green leaves.
Some
window through the
canopy.