It all boils down to the nightie.
To an image seared in my mind,
implanted by your cackle & self-deprecating glee.
Because – I wasn’t there.
Oh, no.
I mean, thank god, I wasn’t there.
That’s a memory for lovers.
But, in my mind,
Bare feet hitting the soft sandy earth.
Legs baby-free in the pitch-black breeze.
Dad running after you, same bare feet, same baby legs.
And the frogs.
Lord in heaven, the frogs!
I can hear their merciless chirping.
The relentless symphony swelling in late night air
as you force the crescendo,
each frog exiting.
<thump thump thump> of your feet.
From pond – to the woods.
From pond – to the woods.
And, clear as a bell, your laughter rings.
One frog at a time.
In nothing but a nightie.
And, oh how you loved him!    

In memory of Kathryn Withenbury