In Her Light

I remember you there;
my first memory of dusk:
you were watching grandpa
race me to the pond,
my steady-lacked legs 
like sapling roots—you 
were laughing with the old man
when they bent & buckled 
my tiny body towards the mud
& when I cried, you nodded
when my grandpa had said:
son, don't sob—stand up 
because you can't grow
old so scared to move. 

I remember you there
when I stripped down 
bare on the pier in dim light 
& jumped down into the lake 
near your reflection in the water.
It must’ve been surreal to see
that same sapling-legged boy
now grown—exposed. 
Did you know those 
oak log legs had a shake?
Did you see them quiver? Me,
scared to show my body, skinny
dipping for the first time
in the company of girls.

I remember you there
before I could remember—
my mom had once pulled out a shoebox 
filled with her childhood hopes & dreams.
She had found a portrait of yours
she had stuffed in the back, one she 
had painted as a sophomore, she said
you were gorgeous that night, you shone
your light on her belly filled with me;
she smiles when she says you were the brightest
she can remember you’d have ever been,
bright enough to paint your figure in the dusk, 
bright enough to wake me up,
to keep her company—
each kick like another
stroke of her brush.