I will hold to my heart the sight of a young man
with a garden hose on his late grandmother’s patio,

aiming a clear stream of water at his late grandfather’s
ski boat, which, ages ago, he drove across the lake

we thought of as ours, pulling our mother out of
the water on her single ski, then my sister,

a blonde streak who zipped across the wake like
an old pro in her first decade of life, and me,

slower to rise, a bit tentative, until I felt the wind
whipping my hair and the water bumping beneath

me, the closest I’ve ever come to flight. And by golly,
if that young man as a toddler wasn’t a sweet copy

of his grandfather, the boater, the skier, and even
now takes a similar stance as he washes down

the vintage ski boat that’s still got a lot of life in her,
as he and his lovely wife make plans to move

into the house where his mother and I were raised,
bringing new energy to the place, infusing it with joy.

And yes, he will take his grandfather’s boat out
on our lake again, the old man, I’m sure,

riding along, beaming with pride.