My Backyard

From a memory when I was three.

The tugboat’s lights break the darkness of the night against the black silhouette of distant cypress. I on Papa’s knee, while he sang to me; I was barely out of diapers.

The moonlit swells, like buttery mercury, roll gently to the bulk headed bank. Our boat dancing to a waltz, moored safely to the wharf; while the large oak tree to the left of me hangs gracefully over its planks.

Papa’s left arm wrapped around me, his song in my right ear. On my right
shoulder his thick rough hand calloused and hard. His chest rises against my back with “Climb upon my knee Sonny Boy”. No levee can ever block this view of my back yard.

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