POEM - Tragic Loss

The plan was to move to Utah

Oregon had crumbled

As the logging industry fell

We had tried to endure

But dad’s jobs had faltered as well

From recent grad landing a BLM contract

To a well-paid corporate trainer

To pump jockey at the corner gas station

So we bolted for Zion on possibilities

A professor gig at the U of U

Holed up in Dan and Kathy’s basement

While all the avenues were exhausted

Hanging with the cousins

It was a summer of tacos and rhubarb pie

And visits to the cabin in Flaming Gorge

By fall we were looking at a house

With a huge basement

            And my own room

I started in my new school

With the big 64 Crayon box

Grasped in my grubby 4^th grade mitts

I was settling into life in Sandy

Caught up in the conspiratorial rumors

That the cafeteria fish served on Tuesdays

Were caught in the drainage ditch

Adjacent to the school parking lot

The day everything changed

            I was distractedly daydreaming

Waiting to be picked up

Deep in thought about pond fish

When my dad pulls up in the Silver Streak

My Uncle Dan’s project car of indeterminate origins

I jumped in the back, my first ride in the car

“How was school?”

            I probably said it was good

“We’re going to Arizona, son.”

            “For a vacation?”

“We’re moving there.”

            “When?

“Right now. Mom’s packing the car.

I already packed the moving van.”

“But I left my crayons . . . “

“Sorry . . . we’ll get you some in Arizona.”

But, you see, it was a new box

With the sharpener in the back

And I hadn’t been able to use it

Hadn’t gotten to fully explore

I had plans for those crayons

Even for the most  useless color

                        You know, the white one

I was distracted, perplexed

No one had discussed this with me   

By that night we were already on the road

As the miles rolled I gradually recovered

By the time I was peeking into the Grand Canyon

I was looking forward instead of back

The crayons stayed behind us too

            I’d pine for them occasionally

More for dramatic effect

Than for any real resentment

When my dad passed away I was 30

            Still waiting on the crayons

Willing to trade them for his return

Last summer my mother showed up to visit

She even brought gifts

I had by now turned 41

            I guess I was finally old enough now

To handle the responsibility

            Originally entrusted when I was 10

As I unwrapped the paper

            I found my long absent crayons

Replaced, restored, requited