June 22, 2019 4:01 pm #7

From the ruined house at the end of the dirt road,
he came out of the dark to our campfire. Roasting
marshmallows, we pull the
crispy, tender brown
from the soft white center. Colors
explode, showering sparks
down over the lake. Fourth of
July we  watched fireworks from my father’s
high rise fortress on the river. A sepia
photograph of the woman in gauzy,
off the shoulder evening wear, lying in the alley,
wet in the melting March snow. Two
houses and the church burned to the ground
that year. Nothing left but ashes.

Sandy colored, he came
like some lost ancestor
out of the dark. Sparks flying
from the fire.

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