I look out from a convenience-store doorway,
just off a mid-summer Indiana exit,
to where he stretches halfway under our truck—
body flush against the days of oil and dust
washed and unwashed away. He scans
the underside to find a leak that trickles
from beneath the axle and metal sheltering
our children who stir in stages of dreams,
wakefulness, and many miles to travel. The sun
frees the dew from the pumps and asphalt
of the world, reopens my eyes
to the one who rises from the shadow.
In the early light he is unveiled to me
as he was in the garden before the tempting,
before all the rest of our days began.
I stand in the clearing of that first morning,
the weight of tomorrow, like a stone, rolls away.
I want to fly to him, to light
on his working shoulder,
tell him what I remember.