Impressions of Lost Loves

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We jump off dad’s boat.

Each plunge pierces and renews  

as we cartwheel into smoke blue water 

surrounded by jagged peaks,  

like dad used to do

before stroke hemmed his horizons.

Mom kept each horizon I sketched.

Bright and blotched dreamscapes

of a crayon Mondrian

framed and hung in her sunroom, 

only museum my art has seen.  

When I moved away I traded 

my charcoal, canvas and paint 

for a tableau of ties, cubicles and traps, 

a cubist caged. 

When I came back

mom handed me a palette,

commanded I paint.

You need it, she said,

convinced I rival Piet.  

If Piet’s like my last rival 

this won’t end well. 

I need someone more grounded, my ex said.

Apparently a pilot fit the bill. 

Pulled a straightjacket off you, my sister Jill jests 

as she baits a hook back in the boat.

I smile and slice a finger 

as I fasten fish food.

She shakes her head,

hands me a pencil and pad,

gestures at the scenery 

and says, I’ll catch.