Bridge to Bunker Island
Grandma and I sit in green adirondack chairs and watch the Kennebec. River water slides past, its surface rippled and reflecting the peach sun-streaked sky above. We watch the water. A damn regulates the daily tides. Some days water runs low, lazy, sluggishly past us and large gray stone jut out, smooth and long across the bank. Tonight water runs high and rushing, muddy and quick. We watch the water and watch the sun sink deeper into the sky. "This is what I like to do," Grans says, pointing and flexing her toes. We pass books between us until shadows steal our words. "Time to go in," she says. I follow. I'm on Grandma time these days.
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