Over & Over Again

my 12 year old self sat in the back
of dad's Impala
i on the left, my brother on the right
of the sticky-hot vinyl bench.
looking over my right shoulder
i was amazed at the bright sandy-pink spray
of dust our tires raised
into the hot Arkansas afternoon.

uncle Garlon lived miles 
into the tabletop cotton land
of northeast Arkansas.
the roads were little more dusty trails
than roads.
every mile or so we encountered
a poorly constructed
narrow bridge
spanning a slow creek
or mumbling river.
i never said a word
but i was terrified we'd plummet
through the roughly hewn floor planks
to our deaths, below.

when we arrived, Aunt Zella said
it was much too hot to sit inside
so we sat in the shade of the house's only tree.
in minutes my blue shirt had soaked through
and it seemed nearly impossible to breathe.

strange i never recall leaving Uncle's farm
with its razor-straight rows of beans and cotton.
returning to Grandma's house meant air
streaming through the open windows
with such velocity it was impossible to hear
the music on the local a/m dial.
it was such a relief to find any moving air.
but six decades removed those memories
my brain locks in time are always in the going
and the arriving, never in the leaving.

maybe that's the way we are... 
hard-wired in the anticipation of the arrival
no matter how uncomfortable the climate.
 
we watch the rooster tail plume of dust
lift into the breezeless air...
we cross bridges of dubious construct
to sit in the company of those we love.

my memory treasures those moments
that took effort to visit
but seconds to elapse.

i would do it over
and over again... 

to watch the dust billow and spin away
simply to sit 'neath a shade tree once more
with those who loved me best.