I remember well, the times we walked our favorite old growth. Most especially that perfect June morning, we trekked deep into that ancient wood, to our favorite spot — our secret clearing. The morning sun filtered softly through the canopy, drifting golden into our sacred space, setting your handsome face aglow. A breeze rustled the treetops, whispering of eternity, casting a spell.
Awed by the splendor, we talked quietly, leaning on the downed Douglas that slumbers there, perhaps centuries, peaceful in its earthen repose. You were eighteen, off to college soon, so excited! I was so in awe of you son.
In that moment, time suspended, life aligned for a perfect memory — my very last of you. Three weeks later you were tragically killed. This memory is left here under the forest canopy, in our clearing, where my heart still journeys — to talk with you.
I will leave in my winter
our clearing awaits
rob kistner © 2020
* This month is my son Aaron’s birth month. He has been vividly on my mind.
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