I Always Tell Them

I Always Tell Them

I always tell them;

Watch the sunrise, until you can no longer see it through the thick smog of the city that you never lived in.

And while you lay, be sure to stretch your head back, until it hurts, and search for shooting stars for as far as you can see because I know you wouldn’t believe me, but when I was your age, you could see the milky way from here.

I always tell them;

Enjoy the sounds of cracks and snaps of the fire logs until you only hear the soft passing of cars on the new interstate that they’ll build straight through here.

Listen to the howls of the owls, the barks of the foxes, and peck peck pecks of the woodpeckers until those very cars drive them out of here.

I always tell them;

Savor the taste of those marshmallows as the sticky strings connect your little fingers to your chin, in the same way the powerlines now connect the hills.

Cherish the buzzing of mosquitoes that you waft away from your face as you try to sing the quiet tune of Kumbaya with your bunkmates, for soon that nighttime song will be replaced by the soft hum of electricity running through those very lines that someone thought should go right there.

I always tell them;

Swim in the lake, even if the plastic bags of human waste that you did not create, fool you into believing that there are finally jellyfish in Kansas.

Feel the soft breeze of the rolling hills brush on your skin because one day, you’ll only feel the blistering heat of the concrete jungle you’ll soon call home, though you never asked to.

I always tell them;

Smell the refreshing scent of evergreens until the the truck hauls them away and you’re left asking, “but where am I supposed to play?”

And climb and jump and swing on those trees until the old rope on the creek that always left you with splinters in your calloused hands is taken away by those big bad machines.

I always tell them;

Run as cops and robbers, dripping with the sweat like only little boys do, until you are robbed of your banks that look oddly like rocks on the riverbank.

Play capture the flag while using the mud to paint your faces like indians who once walked this land like you, until that mud turns to oil and they capture your land too.

I always tell them;

When the cities and the trucks and the trash and the oil come, remember the love of the sun between the stars and the scary stories around the campfire and the feeling of your shaking hands and beating heart as you thought about your fear of bigfoot alone in your tent at night and don’t forget about the feeling of conquering the night when your bare feet met the dew of the morning. And remember the first breath of summer as the smell of evergreens sank deep into your lungs and don’t forget that feeling of finally being a big big kid as you climbed the big big diving board that one summer. And remember the dirt on your knees, the muddy puddles that your mom always hated and don’t forget how you felt when you protected your flag just long enough for your team to capture theirs. Don’t forget. Please, please, don’t forget.

Because I’ll always tell you, you’ll need to remember so that you can protect this place better than we ever did. So that your training as a capture the flag enthusiast comes into handy when you chain yourself to the bulldozers that want to tear down your fort. You’ll need to remember the feeling of that big big diving board so that you remember that you can conquer anything you have the courage to. You’ll need to remember the nights that you shook alone in your tent, but rose in the morning to find that you defeated your fears. You’ll have to tell the others about how the sunbeams dance on the lake over there and how for that brief hour the moon comes out so that the sun can say goodnight, but in the morning,

I’ll always tell you sweet child,

My love, you’ll have to be the one to rise.