Skippin' Rock Blues
In childhood,
my near age cousin
well, he stuttered,
same's the sprinkler
in Grandpa’s garden.
Times my insides
stirred and shuddered, yet
tch-tch-tch-tch-ch-ch-ch-ch garnered
in this buddin’ gut
a calm percussion;
We two unique,
us ragamuffins,
only in communion
contra-crust of family cliques,
drifting in to tough'ning up;
I hated my red mane,
he hated talkin.
With cocked head, I said,
“Your twitched tongue is
awesome, like skipping rocks
at the lake."
An affected glance,
brief mutual look,
my red face matching pate,
awaited his lips to skip.
"Y-y-y-y-your hair’s
l-li-li-l-l-l-li-l-like c-c-copper,"
he smiled, like a rising penny sun.
He stood somewhat taller
then threw one last stone
into his Pa-pa's ample pond.
Thought we'd marry,
told’m so,
he was two years older,
I, in third grade,
had high hopes.
“L-l-l-laws against it,”
he explained.
Broke my heart;
two of us
forever changed.
Copyright © Kathryne Ankney Higheagle | Year Posted 2019
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