Letter 41

Dear you,

I only have two memories of my parents when they were together. The image of those memories have blurred, edges have faded. Luckily, I can still hold them up, toward the light and make out their shapes. Shapes that look like a mom, a dad, a brother, a me; When we were happy. We went camping, it was was morning and the air was still mountain crisp, like a good apple. My mom had burned all the sausage, burned them black. I remember my dad still ate them, and we laughed.

This weekend, we packed up the car, and headed to that very same campsite. We had a helluva time with that enormous tent. I thought it was more fit for 26. I will never forget how our girls laughed in the hammock, or messy faced fire boy and his stick. I don’t think those images will ever fade or blur.

As we dressed for bed and re-tucked in the kids, we both paused silently. We just stared at their sleeping- bag- burrito- bodies then, we looked at one another and cried. That night you ate your burned hobo dinner, just like my dad. And I am not sure about how big that tent actually is in size, but I do know it can house all the love, and my whole world inside.

Love, me