SAND POND

8 6 Y S A N D P O N D M A R K K R A U S H A A R Maine, we’d say. Maine, and lean and linger on the long a and the en but we meant that clear, cold pond and its surrounding white pines. We meant the juncos, the blackbirds, and doves, the blue jays, sandpipers herons and loons. We meant our bare bones cabin and even our family, mostly our family, never chatty exactly but easy and happier together there, my father with his field guides, his mushrooms and berries, my mother with her long walks, and Scrabble and crosswords. We meant my sister at rest on our splintery dock, waving and grinning and squinting into each summer’s sun, both legs in the water just up to her shins. Maine, we’d say and we meant me and my brother trolling slowly past Hall’s Point to one of a dozen secret coves to cast for blue gill and bass. Maine, we’d say and, Maine, we still say and mean all those birds my father could name, all those flowers and ferns he’d look up in his books. 8 7 R Maine, we’d say and we meant that clear, cold pond in which we poured his ashes and watched him disappear, the faintest, irretrievable blue. Maine, we’d say and, Maine we still say and linger on the long a and the en. ...