We had made our way
down to where the river and ocean
roll together underneath that bridge
where, as Ray Carver said,
water comes together with other water.
It was windy, the first fall day
so the water was choppy from that
and from the boats, that sloughed their way upstream
packed with crates like children’s blocks on their metal backs.
When the wind picked up your hat, and sent it careening down the walkway
like a runaway
we chased it catching the black brim
just before it went over the railing.
We headed up the path,
walking hand in hand, our faces red from windburn
scanning the rocks for driftwood, tangled fishing line and maybe a dead crab.
After awhile Brooklyn started to curve away from us
like an old friend passing on
and Manhattan started to appear, and then disappear
flirting it’s way up the coast,
a mere seven miles from where we were,
down where the ocean is.
But it had been so long since I had seen the ocean
that Manhattan didn’t look so grand after all
not next to those whitecaps
not compared to the shadow of that silver bridge spanning
a river that forced its way through the land.
It was a good day, and we had gotten good news
about my father’s cancer.
Not to mention, we had the whole day together for a change.
So it could have been that.
I just wanted you to know this is one of those days
that I’ll remember, even when I can’t remember anything else
Just cause it was so easy
to stand under that bridge with you
and not do anything
but watch all that water get away from me.
16 hours ago