Photo by Stephen Boyer |
In the Redwoods the Ghosts Have Not Gone
The redwoods still stand
Between older blackened stumps
Their over-hanging, long-lived branches
No longer receive smoke from the annual candles
Lit for those campers who did not return.
Layers of needle-filled shadows supplied sanctuaries
In which those wispy ghosts, hungry for life,
Could circle above the community of campers in love with life.
We could not usually guess
Who would not return
But I knew Santos would die.
Santos had a stronger smile
Than all the other campers’ smiles.
Santos of the single name,
Son of hippies living in a trailer in the foothills.
Santos, an eight-year old light-brown-skinned skeleton,
Too sick to splash for long; let alone to swim in the pool;
Shivering in the sunlight on the concrete bench;
Tiny towel wrapped around smooth thin shoulders
Smiling at his new friends in the water.
Skimpy towel, skimpy medical care, a family with skimpy food,
Could not stop his smiling.
My thick beach towel wrapped above his
Could not stop his shaking.
CF camp was a beacon for all to return each year,
Now the camp itself has also died.
I picture myself with a thick beach towel,
Holding it open and empty
At the height of a child
Releasing Santos’ memory
Into the trees.
Margaret Delano, MD 2003
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