To Kesey

Standing on the side of the lake, you slowly swimming in the rain, a grey beard (a sign of your impending old-age, but you still walk in the mud) hiking down a tree-covered trail, just you and me (today) makes me remember.

Remember when you were young? When you were young, you barked all the time. You chased a ball up a hill and then back down. You ran into the woods during hikes, dragging big sticks down trails and begged me to throw something. When you were young you knew how to make me smile, and you smiled back. You swam in the river all day long and hiked with me on the Appalachian Trail, wet and warm in the tent at night.

Remember when we were hippies? When we were hippies, we didn’t dry off after swimming, even though we had mud on our feet. I wore a red hat with long hair. When we were hippies we didn’t care about the back seat of the green car; the four door five speed with VW on the hood. When we were hippies we walked in the park in the rain, and the snow and in the middle of the day. When we were hippies we drove with the windows down and sunroof open; me with my arm out the car and foot on the dashboard, you with your head hanging out of the window, jowls flapping in the wind, a big smile in your eyes.

Remember when we became three? When we became three your mom moved in and we lived in a small apartment and you played with your friend Reggie. We spent the afternoons at the park, swam every day and chased balls in the field behind the house. You chewed on everything.

When we became four, you had a brother and a friend who liked to swim with you and chase balls, and follow you around because you are his example.

When we became five we felt sorry for the little girl because she had nowhere else to go. It wasn’t easy because she is her own personality, but you make it work.

Now we are six, my friend. A little mouth, small legs, a tiny hand to pull a tail, grab an ear, pet your face. Another boy…at least we aren’t outnumbered.