Learning To Be Seven Years Old

The evening settles into
the calls of loons as they echo
over Lake Cadillac. I’m with
my grandparents and they
are growing older. No matter
how they try to smooth
their skin into youth, each night
it is the same wise wrinkles
that look back at me in the
dying light.
 
Tomorrow,
we’ll travel across the lake
to the playground that my brother
and I have been eyeing all day.
My grandfather, with his skin
darkened by sun, and his familiar
soft accent, will fold
me into the smell of peppermint
and tobacco in his arms,
putting his hands around mine
so that I can steer the boat,
and my grandmother
will sew herself into a new dress,
watching us swing and jump
from slide to monkey bars, smiling
at our small laughter.
 
The air will thicken as it grows
dark. This evening
will cost my grandparents
a thousand heartbeats that
cannot be avoided,
but the sunset is beautiful,
and it paints their faces young.