L'aura del Campo

Dad at twelve

I still miss someone who reminds me of my father ...but, mostly I miss myself.



Dad at twelve

The lake at the end of the road shimmered. One could almost hear the sandy haired boy on his run down the road. It was 1928 and today he turned 12.

Oklahoma had barely been a state for 20 years. The Mvskoke lived here in Okmulgee and this
was their capital. The boy's father spoke Creek, worked for the Barnsdal oil company, became a their liaison. His mother spoke Swedish.

But he and his brother only spoke the language of childhood and lived in this clapboard house where one opened the doors at both ends in summer to beg for a breeze blow through.

But I didn't know you back when and no one ever explained how you were as a youth, driving at 11 or running to the lake, sandy hair blowing in the wind on the first day of Spring.

lake shimmer
dad at twelve
spring.

© Kåre Enga 2011-03-21 [168.1]



I was thinking of my dad (1916-1999) and how I sat in front of his family's house in Okmulgee on what would've been his 87th birthday, the first day of Spring.



Still reading Dickinson; finished Alegría (Forché's bilingual edition).



Cool, but brighter. 45º

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