Black Friday - Sandra Anfang

[Lawrence Robinson]

Black Friday
 
While families bleed their wallets 
into big-box stores
my son and I flee to the forest.
We visit our favorite campsite
walk the plank bridge
gambol in the innards of a tunnel tree.
We swill a keg of memories 
in the clutch of thousand-year-old redwoods
gulping wisps of minted air.
I show him the snapshot of himself at three—
white Mowgli poised among the Steller’s Jays—
screaming to the world “I am”.
We commune with deer and turkeys
visit the damned-up creek—
our former swimming hole—
closed for the season or lack of interest.
I ask if he’ll pose inside the tallest tree again
and flower at the ease of his assent.
Pointing the camera toward its black-green limbs
I catch a penumbra of cross-hatched light
beaming bands of magenta and gold
that frame him like a pale Pieta.
Light is anesthetic;
we’re held in its eternal grasp.
At twenty-four, he’s lost the concept of shun.
The day marries us to a new groove.

	- Sandra Anfang
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