Bye bye, summertime

First Gestures

Among the first we learn is good-bye,

your tiny wrist between Dad's forefinger

and thumb forced to wave bye-bye to Mom,

whose hand sails brightly behind a windshield.

Then it's done to make us follow:

          in a crowded mall, a woman waves, "Bye,

we're leaving," and her son stands firm

sobbing, until at last he runs after her,

among shoppers drifting like sharks

who must drag their great hulks

underwater, even in sleep, or drown.

Living, we cover vast territories;

imagine your life drawn on a map—

a scribble on the town where you grew up,

each bus trip traced between school

and home, or a clean line across the sea

to a place you flew once. Think of the time

and things we accumulate, all the while growing

more conscious of losing and leaving. Aging,

our bodies collect wrinkles and scars

for each place the world would not give

under our weight. Our thoughts get laced

with strange aches, sweet as the final chord

that hangs in a guitar's blond torso.

Think how a particular ridge of hills

from a summer of your childhood grows

          in significance, or one hour of light ——

late afternoon, say, when thick sun flings

the shadow of Virginia creeper vines

across the wall of a tiny, white room

where a girl makes love for the first time.

Its leaves tremble like small hands

against the screen while she weeps

in the arms of her bewildered lover.

She's too young to see that as we gather

losses, we may also grow in love;

as in passion, the body shudders

and clutches what it must release.

Julia Spicher Kasdorf