That’s what I call Dad’s watercolor
of Terry Andrae beach: the lake seething
with whitecaps, wind-whipped stunted pines,
heavy clouds racing across a steely sky,
the beach deserted.

Painted in their early married years,
it hung in the kitchen
during the fifty years’ war.

One day in March of Mom’s last year
she peered into the painting
while I made grilled cheese.
This is the first thing I’d save
if the house was burning.
I almost burned the sandwiches.

Now, it hangs in my living room.

Still, I wish Dad had painted a different day:
the beach crowded, all us cousins
fresh from the lake, lips blue
with cold, wrapped in old bath towels
while our parents laugh
louder than the wind.

Kim Parsons (New Berlin) pursues what gives her joy—writing, canoeing, hiking, exploring the natural and metaphysical worlds, and new interests yet to be discovered—and welcomes and learns from whatever life brings. She is a member of WFOP and the Hartford Avenue Poets.