Early Riser
“Do you suppose,” Ben asked, staring into his coffee,
“that our minds have a limited capacity for data?”
“Like,” he continued, “at some point you’d have to erase some things
to make room for more?”
“Maybe,” I responded, stopping to think about it for a moment.
Then my mind settled on the summer cabin my family rented each year,
when I was little.
My Grandfather only dreamt in Polish,
which was odd since he couldn’t speak the language at any other time.
I listened to him quietly from my top bunk..
And, after searching around my bed’s coarse wool blanket,
my hands settled upon the green surplus flashlight that I kept there for reading.
Once lighted, I trained its beam carefully upon the footpath which lead to the latrine.
In my nightgown, worried about bears, I made my way along.
The light cut a narrow tunnel, giving the trees an appearance of wallpaper.
I traveled down the hill and then back up again, after I had finished.
Although I knew the path by heart, I pretended to be an explorer blazing a new trail,
there in the Quebec woods of late summer.
Taking the measure of each rock, I skipped from one to the next,
to avoid the pooling muckety-muck of yesterday's rain.
My light, bouncing along with me, cast humid and chilly halos.
As I rounded the corner, my grandfather’s Polish became audible again.
He was asking Mr. Kowalski to split a dozen eggs;
his mother had only sent him with enough money for six.
His voice guiding me back to the warmth of my scratchy bed.
“On second thought,” I said, “I think the space is more-or-less infinite.”
“Huh,” Ben said, still focused on his coffee, blindly stirring.
“You’re probably right,” he continued. Finally, he looked up at me
before glancing down again to tap his spoon.