Distentio Animi

It was a Sunday, perhaps.

We reached the river inside grandpa's newly-sanded truck.
My father raised his brows to greet the peasants, ours were with chapped hands,
as they discussed the Devil's apparition in the oak's trunk.

That day we splashed naked
guarding what would only come back with the years
while the music would lower itself on a family reunion.

That day we named the things by its name,
confident that the eldest will take care of the younger
and the youngest will learn from the rest.

That day to dive inside the tide
was the reason to be what we wanted to be,
to stay where we wanted to stay
holding our breath.

Years run after years,
our creased fingers warned
only the river had enough trust on us.
Fewer is left to say now about that same old cobbled path
where I came back yesterday or last week
it was a Sunday, perhaps.