There’s an orange cushion in my parents’ house

In 25 years it hasn’t changed an ounce

It’s in the basement – a cool place, in fact

Seeing it the other day took me back

It’s orange like a pumpkin with white cloth handles on each side

Firm but giving

I held it there on the concrete

It got me remembering

Being 10-years-old on the bay with my brother and dad and our dog

Sunday mornings when my mom worked

We all went to the beach and skipped church

We used to float on that cushion in the water

It was a life raft

My dad would sometimes use it for back support in his kayak

When I was even younger me and my best friend would tie that cushion inside our rope swing

She’d sit on it, I’d push her around then hop in

We’d fly so high, like we were living a dream

An orange cushion looped into a rope

That swing was like a rocket, the cushion rudimentary dope

Our family cat Skipper used to sleep on the cushion

His coat was orange too, with white stripes

Lounging on the cushion was something he always liked

He’d purr

I held that orange cushion to my face

It was like a cure

Its orange glow was a little faded

The cushion worn

At 34: the rope swing is no more

My older brother is away on tour

My parents are upstairs sleeping

My old best friend is somewhere

My German shepherd and Skipper at the pearly gates

The basement is quiet

I stand and wait

Happily reminded of pleasant times

I dust off the orange cushion

The childhood it floated through was mine

My parents are still alive

I have a husband and a Golden retriever now – my best friends

I think of trees, the beach, new adventure

As I turn to leave I bring with me

The orange cushion