Grandma At Markleeville
by Jennifer Lagier

Our two fishermen
leave us tending the fire
while they patiently angle.

We are strangers
despite the living bridge
of her son, a man I call father.

At our campsite, we test
the waters, casting bright
spinners of family stories.

Invisible under Sierra stars,
she lights that forbidden cigarette,
conjures red dirt, Tennessee forests.

Like agile trout, history
bumps and teases,
misses the mind's hook.

Today, I only vaguely remember.
Grandma's voice shimmers,
disappears beneath tumbling water.

Copyright 2024 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.