Sycamore Canyon

By CHRISTOPHER MENEZES and KRISS KRUCKENBERG

We wandered into the fields
in front of our childhood home
into Sycamore Canyon
to lay our backs against the boulders
and let the sun warm our skin.

We knelt by the trees growing from the ravine,
our knees sinking into the damp earth.
You plunged your hand into the cold water
snagged a crawdad with your fingers.
A hawk circled above us,
and I said to you, “I never want you to die.”

The grassy hills still speak
of who we once were—
kids riding bikes through the dirt,
grinding our skates against the curb,
under backyard stars, talking and laughing too loud,
parents yelling out the window to “keep it down.”

I dreamt I saw you in our house,
making coffee,
reaching for a mug.
You stood tall, calm.
Your fatherly presence
put me at ease.
You asked me for a spoon.
I grabbed one and dropped it.
With gentle eyes, you looked at me,
said, “It’s okay.”
I woke up crying, calling out your name,
the name I gave you—Dad.

It’s been ten years since you passed,
and I miss you
like I miss the moon
glowing over the hills of Sycamore Canyon.
I miss you as the sun drifts beyond the horizon
of Sycamore Canyon.

Ω

Christopher Menezes holds a BA in creative writing from California State University, Long Beach, and an MFA in poetry from Converse College. A flash-contest winner for Switchback and a 2023 Best of the Net nominee, his work has appeared in Red Door, RipRap, Rockvale Review, Gold Man Review, Untenured, and others. Check him out at christophermenezes.com or Instagram @menezes_christopher.

Braeden Sagehorn was born and raised in Shelton, Connecticut, but currently resides in West Haven. He attends the University of Connecticut School of Medicine as a third-year medical student.