The Long Way
Depart before dawn,
follow the dirt path
into the valley
hidden by fog,
where rust-brown and
dusty-gray coyotes glide
through the chaparral,
where every breath burns
like a gulp of ice water,
the river drowns out the
crunch of your footsteps,
and anise chokes the trail,
releasing the scent of
black licorice as you
shoulder past,
until you reach the drop-off,
and you have no choice
but to pause:
your heart thumps in your ears,
condensation mixed with sweat
drips from your chin,
and your muscles shiver
from exertion.
Yet: your soul yearns
to follow the river over
the edge,
through the ravine bristling
with cottonwoods, willows,
and bamboo,
under roads, across
private land dotted with
orange and lemon trees
and ranch-style mansions
to where it joins with the sea–
but you know your limits.
Instead, you wait until the sun crests
the ridge and cascades over you,
warming your cheeks and
the tip of your nose,
melting away the fog…
then, despite the wanderlust
taking root in your soul,
you knock the clumps of mud
from your boots, turn around,
and venture home–
the long way.
Five Summers Later
When she swims, her loose hair gathers
the yellow palm tree flowers,
(but not the bees;
I scoop them out of her path
with my cupped hands)
every time she surfaces for a breath,
she sputters through the strands
(she refuses the scrunchie on my wrist).
She asks me to stay close,
although I think we both know
she is strong enough now;
she mermaid dives to the bottom,
starfish-floats in place,
and makes it to the side if she tires
while swimming the whole length.
Almost six years old—
watching her, I remember
how she used to cling,
and curl her tiny fists around
my swimsuit straps.
When I tell her we need to dry off,
she glides to the stairs in the
shallow end, and I follow.
But instead of climbing out, she
pulls a lock of hair from her mouth,
and smiles. “Can I have
a few more minutes
to play ice cream shop?”
Weary of negotiating everything,
yet relieved she still loves our old game,
I crouch beside her and angle my back
to keep her face in the shade.
“Okay,” I say.
“Do you want the unicorn surprise?”
she taps a pearl-colored tile.
“It’s every single flavor, with
pieces of cone, and whipped cream,
and sprinkles, with a cherry on top.”
“Yes please, two scoops.”
She splashes and twirls, then
flourishes her arm. “Here you go.”
As I accept the pretend treat,
her fingertips kiss mine,
and I wish I could freeze
this sweet moment in time.
Kristen Hornung lives in Encinitas, California. When not parenting or working, Kristen loves to take long walks and get lost in stories. Kristen has been published in Psychological Perspectives, Zooscape, and with Havok Publishing online.
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