A Sunday Afternoon

We found our own eight feet of beach
along the Hudson, delineated by twisted trees
and vines reaching out towards the salt air.

I stood on the tips of my toes
picking mulberries from the ancient tree
and dropping them in the cup of my hand
to eat from the comfort of the folding chairs
she'd brought. Her flip-flopped feet
were being accosted by brackish water
as the waves tripped over themselves
and crashed onto shore.

My fingers were stained purple
from over-zealous berry handling.
I smashed one on her forehead
but the juice wiped right off.
My sinister side was disappointed.

We stared out at the shining crests
and diving gulls. Twenty-somethings
flew by on jet skis. There were some boaters.
I was glad no one waved. It was far too nice a day
to lie again.

Part of me was legitimately frightened
that my old man would come walking
along the trail and find us.
He's the one who showed me that place.
He's the one who's shown me a lot of things
not all of which were quite as beautiful.
Back when we still spoke
he told me that he saw me sitting on a bench
at the pier in Cold Spring with a pretty young blonde
under my arm and didn't want to bother us.
That story's stayed with me moreso than I'd like to admit.
Like I said, it's a legitimate fear.

"My dad would like this place," she said.
"He could take pictures."

Was it possible to get the red-eye out of the Devil?
No, of course not.
I kicked a piece of driftwood into the river
letting the receding tide decide its fate.
It was more fair than the norm.

A group of kids came running down the trail
and right into our cove.
They wouldn't have been able to gather
any mulberries, even if they knew how good they were;
I'd picked all the ones low to the ground.
My purple-stained hands hid each other
in my lap, the blank stares of innocent children
enough to condemn a guilty conscience.

The youngest one, a slender little white-haired girl
climbed into a crotch in the J-shaped tree that extended out
over the water. Her father came along to take a picture.
The smile was just as fake as mine used to be.
We don't want to fake those moments, Dad.
We want to live them.

"Do you need help getting down?" a concerned older
brother asked as she maneuvered her way
back to the ground without answering.
I remained poised and ready to pluck her from
the shallow water if she slipped.
I knew she wouldn't fall, though.
Not after that bitter Kodak moment
that didn't capture anything worth keeping.

"Look at the truck on the railroad tracks
on the other side of the river," I said.
"It must be one of those ones that has
steel wheels instead of tires to ride the rails.
You couldn't pay me enough to do that."

"But they must know the train schedule,"
she said, the kid in her showing
through the potential front-page tragedy.

"Sure, but people make those schedules.
They're susceptible to human error.
It's no science."

She didn't disagree.
She must've been learning when to let me go.
We changed the subject.
And after we got home I learned that mulberries
are an aphrodesiac.