The Lantern

Every year he brought us there

for September weekends -

Granddad, armed with spools of stovepipe wire

to fix the car, tie down the tarp,

hang the lantern over camp.

At night we sat wondering what lurked

beyond the circle of its light.

Sheep Creek ran through a 100-acre meadow

nestled in cedars at the base of the mountains.

After his death, Grandma brought his ashes back

where his soul and a piece of herself remained.

She didn’t hear the leaves crunch beneath her feet.

She didn’t hear the creek trickle.

Sorrow drowned out sound.

Away from the familiar camp site where

the tent had once pitched and the lantern hung,

a tangle of stovepipe wire grabbed hold of Grandma’s pant leg

and wouldn’t let go.

She scooped it up and put it in her pocket.

She could feel the light again.