The red dirt was flecked with mica—
the pattern of a promise—fool’s gold
but real for children. The same road
our grandparents had crossed
and recrossed with a mule-drawn wagon,
hauled coffins to the cemetery hill,
was worth exploring. We spent hours
in the hot sun to find pieces of chipped flint,
a single perfect arrowhead.
 
I found one and have it now, still recall
the mystery of a stone triangle
that was worth more than any
store-bought toy, even the promise
we’d spend a weekend, a single day,
on a Gulf Coast beach. I have it now in
a metal box with a will and a few old
love letters to read before the end
just to remind myself that mystery
 
happened once and seemed worth
everything: her red hair, violet eyes,
the blue dress she wore because it was
my favorite. The arrowhead is still
a perfect triangle, picked up from
the red-dirt road, and points
in any direction. I close my eyes—
close up my hand—to cross a blue,
unknown sky.