St. George Island

Tallahassee is cold in March.
We didn’t come here to relax.

Ten days in a hospital bed,
his future: uncertain.

Ours too.

His memory is gone.
It’s not coming back.

She was wrong, of course.
Hardly tactful but wrong.

TV spelling bees
and a red balloon
from friends at school –
conflated memories.

On his release
we drove to the Gulf,
the magnificent ocean.

Warmer, though
not
tropical.

It is March, after all.

Crazy gulls
swoop down on us from
pale gray skies.

It feels good to laugh.

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