View from a Childhood Window

On tiptoe, my palms against the smooth wood paneling,

my fingers clutching the cool aluminum frame of the

roll-out windows that will soon be a factor in many tricycle

accidents resulting in minor head injuries, I can just

peak outside and see our dog, stretched on the splintery

deck, pine trees dropping their straw-like needles,

the little lake’s blue-grey waves, a dull-green fishing

boat anchored in the slough, sun bleaching the driveway

sand; hear the buzz of the screened-out mosquitoes,

a distant rhythmic splash; smell fish and sap, gardenia

blossoms and outboard-motor fuel, the last of which

will many years later, when the trailer is gone, the trees

have been cut, and the dog has gone wherever good

dogs go, remind me always of my late uncle skiing.

Note: This is the result of an exercise I did in a workshop conducted by Ben Myers at the Nimrod writers’ conference in Tulsa, Oklahoma, October 2015.

Copyright 2015

T. Allen Culpepper

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