home after work September 2, 2016.
Those fleeting hours we hit the strand –
a band of cousins and eager aunts
dragging our frazzled uncles in tow.
Fueled by cokes and funnel cakes,
we bounced around the beach pavilion
trading a wad of tickets for thrills
till, flushed, we faced our final ride –
the ginormous log flume,
which took six tickets
or was it ten? We gave no thought,
just hopped aboard a dugout log
and off we floated, swept beyond
the jostling crowd through a portal
walled with wads of bubble gum –
the scent of Juicy Fruit, chlorine, and fun.
We went sliding down the sluiceway
swirling into curves, swaying through
a snake turn, sloshing round a bend
which washed to the base of a towering mountain
where gears engaged with mechanical thumps,
shudders and clanks, the stink of grease
on a slow rise to heights where young lives
pause. We peered beyond our tiny selves
to a miniature beach, the silent surf,
the forever swath of water.
The whole world lay at our feet
so we let go our hold, small hands high
the free fall
took
seconds
the great splash
even less.
It was over in a childhood moment.
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