As
the warm day settled into moonlight on Cape Cod
our
vacation cottage settled to sylvan silence
sea
salt heavy in the air, we five kids—
my
siblings and a couple of friends—perched
our
fifty toes gripped round the weathered handrail
of
a gnarled grey deck—the kind that puts splinters
in
your feet. Defying gravity, bottom sides up
we
tipped like ducklings mooning the woods
—a
breeze swept over our bums producing
ecstatic
giggles as we teetered above grass
and
trees far below. Indoors, adults murmured
over
martinis, smoked cigarettes preparing
to
watch history change. Outside, giddy
with
the threat of falling with freedom
far
from home up way past bedtime unattended
the
cool night air bathed our skin.
The
screen door creaked open. Freeze!
Mom's
arm appeared—not her face
her
voice snapped, “Come in, quickly!”
Uh-oh,
we're in big trouble.
We
hoisted up our britches, jumped down from the rail
ran
into the dim, pine-paneled living room
hoped
the scolding would be mild—
it
was vacation after all and we had company.
Mom
shushed, “Sit down and watch,” —Phew
she
hadn't seen us. We sat on the worn, braided rug
adults
on the tobacco-stained couch. The TV glimmered
through
musty vacation-rental air in wavy black-and-white lines
crackled,
“That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,”
and in that unimagined moment we were one
with
the cosmos. We all left the TV, stood together on the deck
looked
up in silence at the moon.
We
were Neil
Armstrong.
We
were America. We could do anything
our
hopes and hearts desired. It was as exhilarating
as
the wind on my bum.
photos: 21 April, 2019, Nice
19 May, 2019, Nice
Historical note:
Listening full speed to Armstrong's quote, my childhood ears did not hear "a
man" just "man" on TV.
