NaPoWriMo #4: Whitewater

Whitewater

the summer we headed down to Whitewater
it was the rainy season
so we packed extra tarps
to fight off the groundswells.
you lit the camp stove, huddled up
under a tree void of scratched initials,
told me your fears of losing me
vanishing in the distance of your rearview mirror,
so I eased your conscience and scratched
a name and a promise deep into your back,
someone to follow you forever.

by stovelight we made it back
crawling over the threshold before
the first lightning struck, your eyes
shut down in the new darkness
but I kept mine wide for you, so when
the thunder shook foundation I could be the reflection, constant,
the short gasp before your screams.

when we woke up on soaked sheets
I held you tighter than bark
and told you I loved you for the first time,
pinning my chest between your shoulders
all to keep you here in this tent forever, at least
until we were old enough to know better.

that was so many summers ago
and I wonder if your husband ever traces
those scratches I left carved in your skin
like reading a book that was given away
by its own ending, a flurry of acknowledgements,
and does he wonder why your eyes close
when the hot air turns to rain?
I hope he doesn't, because I haven't told a soul.