"Grandmother Remembers a Distant Summer" Richard shipped the oars and we drifted, the water baubled and sharp in late afternoon. The far shore breathed a shadow that rang like a cool bell across the lake. What age was I? I wore white, which I always favored when I was out with boys I fancied, and a ribbon as green as thought, a blade of grass to slice lines in the clear water. Or was Dennis at the oars that day? I remember my hat, the sun that stirred the surface as strongly as wind in from the coast, but we had wanted a day of quiet, not a struggle against tide and currents. But how old was I, really? I was ancient already, I think. Why not? Love and chardonnay like rings in a tree trunk. Yes, I was as ancient as the sandhill crane sent by some summer goddess to arrow toward evening, a dry field, a dance. I remember that day. I have a photo taken from an impossible angle, so someone was with me that day. They caught the light, the fractured surface of the lake, and I remember wanting something. Always. And I was that age. I can recall it now. Yes, I was exactly that age.
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