Beneath the hackberry tree, we ride a child's plastic swimming pool through summer heat, my son and I, he about three years old, a small, concentrated squirm of wet squeals. Leaves filter the light, the water cools and plashes, child's voice like a chattering jay. And then the pool is inside the house, I painting the wall, my son's first-time vision witnessing the roller's movement, the wet color applied. He rubs his face along the roller; I help wash the paint off, explaining it is meant to stay, to linger like a memory. Brushes change, I'm painting a landscape, a child's swimming pool floating on a river, a dream, liquid, conscious color on a greater expanse of river. Sky paints a brilliant blue, sun shines yellow, shoreline a distant green of loam. Silence bustles: lap of wave, sough of wind, the calling of birds. We lean out the window of our boat, our pool, our home, the living waters of our living--my son's arm and hand on my shoulder, we of the same water, of the same waters as the river, river unwinding to the horizon, a silent movement of stillness: sunshine glowing leaves of a larger tree, sky a deep breath of blue: my voice, my child's voice, innocent as birdsong crying the beauty of the day.
Copyright 2011, by Thomas L. Kepler, all rights reserved
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