Slathered with suntan lotion and sitting
under a Shibumi, my husband and I along
with two of our dear friends—all of us
over sixty-five—ate our lunch. Pimento
cheese and turkey sandwiches, potato chips
and chocolate pound cake, made for a grand
picnic as we sweltered in the heat, pressed
bottles of cold water against our sweaty
foreheads. Adding our ailments together,
we’ve had cancer and a heart attack, high
cholesterol and a movement disorder, each
of us taking daily medication. So be it. We
still looked good, if a bit shopworn, in our
beach attire, including billed hats and bare
legs—white, brown, or freckled. Look at
that, we said a few times while watching
people of all ages do whatever it was they
were doing. There was a lumbering little boy
wearing a thickly padded life jacket, loads
of nearly naked teenagers, and tattoos galore
on both firm and sagging flesh. Couples
strolled by and mothers with babies, dads
with more hair on their legs than their heads.
Most people were stationary, like us, parked
beneath their umbrellas and Shibumis, music
blaring, beverages in hand, soaking up sounds
of the sea, the white-hot glare, and a cloudless
sky the color of blue jeans washed a thousand
times. And despite the occasional temper tan-
trums of hot and tired children, the screaming
gulls fighting over bits of stale bread, and the
blistering heat, we were content to breathe the
humid air and brave those soaring temps for
a few carefree hours with the friends we have
known for years, talking or not talking—just
watching the world go by. We were happy
to be alive on a sunny summer day that will
never come again—but could shine through
the scrim of a poem long after we are gone.
Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of seven collections of award-winning poetry, including Night Talks: New & Selected Poems (Press 53), a finalist for the International Book Award for Poetry. Her work has appeared in “American Life in Poetry,” Rattle, The SUN, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and many others.
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