It's Sixteen Millimeter color footage
of a pond in Concord, my father,
a white sailor's hat curled at the forehead,
shirtless, brown chest, an oar in each hand,
left then right, and me six-years-old, sitting
across from him in the bow of the rowboat,
as he works his way around the pond.
It was easier for him then. All he had to
do was look across to know I was safe,
no secrets, no worry, no phone calls at 3 am.
I can see it on his face, the whole world
slowed down, no future, no regrets,
just the summer for one long moment,
the oars, my hand dipping into the cool
dark water around us, the white birch trees
sipping the shore, the world and all its
worry, miles and miles away from here.