Tomas

by Margaret Haberman

When the children were small I took them to the ocean 
and paddled a canoe toward the shore as the surf, 
unexpected and on our beam, filled the boat with water 
and ruined the film in the camera. All the images 
of our daughters laughing, meant to prove, to me 
and the world, that we would not be submerged by sadness. 
Safely on the beach, swatting biting flies, I watched 
a young man with long blonde hair pull a rowing skiff 
out into the water and jump in, easy effortless. 
It was like seeing you in ‘78. Rolling across campus 
on your skateboard; tossing a frisbee beyond 
the playing fields; running up the soft sides 
of the indoor tennis courts 

My mother still says of you, He was almost my son in law. 
You don’t hesitate to remind me of my offhand insult-- 
If you weren’t so stupid, you’d be dangerous. I was better 
with clever phrases, than telling the truth. You might 
have remembered anything else. Hiking down to the Colorado 
River. Sleeping with our backs to the red canyon walls, 
desert mice scurrying across our sleeping bags in the dark. 
Driving your old tan Karmann Ghia from Salt Lake to Park City 
and beyond. Those early days whistling my name 
Mar-ga-ri-ta in the dark as you walked down the hillside, 
beckoning. Peeling a grapefruit, handing the little moons 
to me, in the clinic in Boston, when everything went wrong.

I watched the young man as he pulled at the oars, and slid 
easy through the waves. My children ran down the beach 
away from me. After you found someone else, our friends said, 
Everyone knows, it’s because he hasn’t gotten over you. 
When we started the eight mile hike up, out of the Grand Canyon, 
I told you, It won’t be so bad. It’s only eight miles. You knew 
what eight miles of switchbacks felt like, hiking up, out, away. 
I had no idea what it meant, to put one foot in front of the other, 
hours at a time, leave behind the cool and the sublime, 
the long long mysterious red side canyons. Leaving. 
If you had been on that beach, you would have pushed a boat 
into the sea, vaulting your body over the gunwales, taking the oars 
up, before losing ground. You would not wait for me. I am still 
on the beach, watching my children, watching you pull away, 
even though I know, this is only part of the story, I am still 
not telling the truth.