Lessons from Wisconsin

We’re sitting on the beach

flailing at mosquitoes

and watching the sunset.

The smell of campfire lingers on

the breeze,

leaving liquid footprints as it tiptoes

across the lake.

Grandpa sits in his faded lawn chair,

blue argyle socks falling down around

white ankles.

His hands rest in his lap, wrinkled and

baby soft;

he hasn’t fished in 18 years.

A water bug skirts across the lake.

“Ewww, gross,” I squeak.

Grandpa looks at me and puts his finger

to his lips.

He points to the water,

“Look, he’s dancing …”

I stare at the tiny body, leaping and

bounding in the evening wake.

“We’re like that,” Grandpa says, staring

into the water,

“except too many people see the bug,

and not the dancer.”