The spring hits

the rocks

and splashes

up onto my ankles.

Mud forms

like cold freckles

as dad cradles

the water, washes

his face.

He lets it drip

how it’s supposed to.

Each year, he climbs

this mountain

to collect

the last

of our family

-’s home.

Filling a bottle

to the top,

he shows

me what it means

to remember

paternal memories

that were never

my own.

I hold my daughter

hands just the same,

take a sip, wash

my face.

The water that raised

us all, a trail

now mounted

on my chest.

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