Because We Always Thought it Would get Better

we drove east across the bridge as it collapsed. admiring
the scenery. traffic slowed on the 401 but Pickering and
Darlington had no power over us.  look up kids you can see
the lake from the highway now. our Lake. our Beach. where

poplars hold the sand and hiss in the wind. I remember that
summer in 2003 with dead zebra mussels so thick on shore
we spread them across Welsh Lane. each morning tractors
raked Outlet Beach before swimmers arrived.

did I hear you call my name or was it the waves crashing on
the shore of Lake Ontario?  these memories won’t get any
clearer will they?  when old Mrs. Welsh died, the cottagers
cut down trees and built bigger houses. but I had left by then

and the boys didn’t want to go anymore. anyway now I
grow native plants in my backyard garden and try to learn
their Algonquin names. do you remember the red velvet bench
we kneeled on with our palms up waiting for the host? I made

this tiny prayer for you. it is a small boat floating. 

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this poem was written on the day that Alice Munro died, although
I didn't know that until later. may she rest in peace.

Published in Willows Wept Review, Issue 36; Spring 2025