Deborah Bogen: January

Think of a snowfield before the first child wakes, before sled runners cross the hill and the boots of hunters do their work. We’ve climbed to the top of another year. Even the Conoco station is pristine in this light.

This year I’ll lose ten pounds, clean the closet, write a letter. Maybe I’ll call my father’s friend, the one who saved his life in Okinawa on a road that in the picture vanishes in dark tropical undergrowth. In the picture, Dad and his friend lounge on their tank, relaxed as boys on a playground, mouths smoke-stained, hands beer-bottled. They grin at the camera as if they could see what’s coming. As if they could see what’s coming next.

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Copyright 2015 Deborah Bogen