I just posted, here in the Attic, an end of Summer reflection, a post that is pretty alright I think, but in that posting it reminded me at the bottom of it one from last Summer and well, maybe one more grasp at it before Fall.
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August 5, 2024.
The other day my production boss, Randy and I went to a local waterpark, Splashdown Beach, “America’s Biggest Little Waterpark” in Fishkill, NY at the invite of the Splashdown boss guy, Steve, to grab some lunch as a thank you for the production work we do for them (well, Randy … Steve and Splashdown are “his” in our divvied up client work).
While waiting in the main lobby area I got a chance to be fascinated again, as I always am, at some of the oversized photos of old time beach and summertime fun, as well as other Splashdown pics that adorn the walls here and around the rest of the park.
Some of the older ones, of classic, happy, boardwalk and beach days made me think of postcards that might have featured the same back when postcards were still sent.
.
Postcard
You were beach and boardwalks
pictures of imagined
haughty days only others could afford
to ride Ferris Wheels and wave tall round smiles at excitedly milling insects below
or chance games of chance perchance
when you returned to earth
.
You were untold story in vistas in the long
that stretched toward far off worlds over waves that sung
songs
with rum
fell curved into dreams
and I curved with them
.
You were hand in almost
hand
pinkies
young
could I kiss her
if I were there, in a postcard
not be awkward in words
saladed with ummms and ahhhhhs
would that be too forward an ask?
.
My feet lift happy
as I go nowhere with purpose
stilled
in my postcard
that one curly mustached swimmer who looks me in the eye
from the beach in striped one piece time
long dead
tells me the sky was perfect for postcard dreams
that day
sent for smiling envy
.
Your magic
your wonder
has been lost
but your bright pastels and pictured smells
were all the tells of where I wanted be
stammering in possible young love in the sun
found history past
in a box
of memory
postcards I collected
when I was young
.
Could I send you to a new found love?
Now?
Maybe?
Imploring “Wish you were here”
with colored pinks and blues and yellows and reds
that taste of stretchy taffy
smell of sticky cotton candy
feel of crispy skin sea salted
sound of creaky old wood beneath my feet
.
Could I step back?
For just a moment
recapture the wistful wish
of a card pictured boardwalk sun shown day sent in the mail?
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