My daughter-in-law wept

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Rolling, pressing tightly, with two hands, both knees, purging air bubbles, securing the sleeping bag with elastic straps, so there can be no doubting my reason, the precision of my preparation, and I never forget insect repellent, or my dented Coleman thermos – iced tea in July, coffee or something hard come September – and as maple leaves color and tumble in October, I’ll bring a propane grill, for warmth, maybe even marshmallows, and I epitomize sensibility, practicality, and yet, and yet my children were shocked – Christ, my daughter-in-law wept – when they learned of my drives up through the greenbelt, across the river, stars glistening, random fog wisps, out to St. Luke’s, parking in the moonglow off Corhaln Road, then lugging gear over twin hillocks, over generations of fallen fir needles, to camp beside the wife’s grave.

Kurt Praschak

A lifelong New Jersey resident, Kurt Praschak owns a degree in English, and has spent his professional career as a public relations counsel, journalist, and freelance writer. His poetry -- which has appeared in Stepping Stones Magazine -- tends toward a breathless, stream-of-consciousness style, because that’s how his brain works. Married with two grown children, Praschak is tormented both by his decades-old fan relationship with the New York Jets and by his 12-pound Jack Russell terrier, who insists on twice-daily walks in even the most abominable weather.

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  • Natalya Rizzi

    Wow! That’s FANTASTIC. Great poem!!


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