A Life Chronicled In Poetry

My Memorial To Cousin Phil

I took the long drive home to the foothills one Memorial Day weekend, something that I don’t do quite often enough.  Driving along the now paved winding road, I could almost taste the dust that no longer boiled up behind the rear tires of my old pick-up.  The creek where I used to fish and swim seemed so small and muddy, it was nearly dried up.  When I got to the old home place, the long swinging bridge was in disrepair and the low bridge was washed out by earlier spring rains.  So, my old pick-up and I forged the shallow creek to the meadow on the other side. 

Walking through the cemetery, I talked with Dad, my Grandparents and Uncles.  I placed fresh flowers at each marker, pulled some weeds and dropped a few tears as I knelt down.  Deciding to sit for a while and wait on my brothers and sisters to meet me as we had planned, I hunkered down on the creek bank.  Looking across the way at where the House and Old Country Store used to stand I thought about the Cherry Tree that blossomed each year.  It had stood at the bottom of the hill.  The entire place seemed so small and barren now.  Closing my eyes I settled back in the tall grass for a moment to enjoy the quite solitude.  I felt safe here. 

Gently, I was awakened by the sound of laughter and splashing in the creek.  I knew it was my cousin Phil and me.  We were there in the clear cool water.  My eyes slowly opened as I heard another familiar voice calling my name.  Gazing through the mist that covered my eyes, a figure began to take shape standing on the front porch of the Old Country Store.  It was Grand-pa.  He was waiving to us and shouting to come on out of the creek.  Wiping the mist from my eyes, I could see the old gas pumps and the path that led from the store up the hill to the house.  There was the house just as it had been and the Cherry Tree in full bloom, nearly blocking my view of the front porch.  Squinting, I could barely make out the outline of my Grand-ma peering through the front window.  She was watching for my dad in his big coal truck to come rumbling down the dirt road. 

I watched as two young boys climbed up the creek bank to the dusty road and dart across to the front of the store.  Running into the store, they exited a moment later each holding an ice cold RC Cola and a bag of salted peanuts.  Grand-pa was the best.  They sat there on the store-front pouring the peanuts into the cola bottles.  I could hear them bragging that one could skip a rock further than the other.  I smiled, remembering that I had been hit in the cheek by a skipping rock.  It had been my fault.  I didn’t duck fast enough. 

Then I heard it; the deep rattling sound of the Mack truck as the gears were down shifted.  The big, white, Mack with thirty tons of coal came to a stop in front of the two boys.  Grand-ma came out onto the front porch of the house and waived.  Grand-pa stepped out of the store saying and kind’a asking, “Last load today?”  My dad just nodded, my signal to climb up into the cab beside him, but not before prot