Crossing the Pemigewasset
This is how I like to remember us.
On a fine summer day, crossing on foot
the swift thin Pemigewasset River
in our White Mountains.
Not that we couldn’t have walked upstream
to the bridge, like the others.
It seemed more interesting to hop
from one granite rock to another.
It starts out easily enough. One jump,
then two and three in quick succession,
barefoot on sun-warm stones, shoes in hand.
A problem. The next available step already
submerged in the cold rushing water.
You slide one foot onto it and find
your ground, the other foot following softly.
I come next and feel the slimy rock
slip underfoot, the cold water swirling
around my ankle until feeling creeps away.
I curl my toes to gain a better grip.
Now comes the commitment.
You toss your shoes, then mine
to the opposing bank.
The next step in error. The stone
deeper than it appears. With the cold now
caressing my thigh, I pause to survey
my options. You are still near enough to touch
so I take your hand and then,
we begin to fall.
The unsteady feeling of falling backward,
now forward, knees buckle, arms flail,
grabbing at nothingness,
until all we feel is wet and cold and
there is nothing for it but to laugh.
And so we do.
Our friends having reached the other side
safely by bridge wait, puzzled and dry,
on the rocky shore.
