Cousins

When the long day's work is done, the cousins go down to the dock. They sit together at the bottom of the hill and whisper and talk and laugh. I can almost hear them.

I see in my mind, two young boys, one with blonde hair, one with brown. The blonde one stands on a rock brandishing his wooden sword. The brown haired boy watches the other's every move. But in this picture there is no lake and there is no dock. This is the wrong place and time. These are not the cousins by the dock, but their fathers long ago.

And now I see in my mind, two toddlers crawling on the floor at Christmas time, one with blonde hair, one with brown. They are climbing on the back of a man who, a generation before, stood upon a rock and waved a wooden sword and taught his cousins about Robin Hood.

Yes, I can almost hear their laughter coming up the hill from their spot on the dock even though I am a thousand miles away. And I can hear it even if my pictures are slightly confused. You see they are cousins, as were their fathers, and this time together will last throughout their years.

I know.

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