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Coiled up in concert with four knocking knees, bent in sharp degrees and interlocked. A dad for all parts future. Eccentric tantra, a held gasp shuttered out by clenched teeth and parched pursed lips. A 50s baby. Best at bikes and biking and a thoroughbred set of cyclic thighs. Describing the landscape, he cradles my hand, calves jutting into position as we traverse the outstretched terrain of proper jagged rocks, smut-filled harbor air. This was, at once, a dad for the ages. Shadowed entirely by five'o' clock stubble, traipsing through nature's rubble. A dad with only a come-hither stare and an aura of perception involuntarily aware. Broiled up and conserve, sore shocking crease folded over the most carnal secrets. Each and every carnival we went to in a matter of seconds, just by holding hands and remembering that youth can fractal into permanence. If only we can stay away forever, dad tells me. He brought only one tent. It is lacy. He says. Tree cutting. We are going to learn to be sturdy lumberjacks and read the stars and yawn real far before a lake that stretches to the finite, fragrant horizon. He turns my wrists over and kisses both, then placing a gameboy color in one hand and steering me toward a nearby log while he readies all and every rotten slit of our ceremonial, ritualistic, occult, trust camp. Grimoires, spells, long sought for familiarity with our waistlines ands their comparative differences upon tedious inspection. All my merit badges aligned along in a row of mmmmmmm. Dads.
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