Rob S. Friedman
May 2022
To Jill, Class of '77
I knew I was back in Ripon only by waking up beneath your hand-sewn quilt. You didn’t ask me to explain Oshkosh. I’m still in thrall of the scent of your bed.
Years before, I portaged to Lake Linda. Embers cooled as stars brightened and I rose to chirping and twig stems cracking, alone, sated by sleeping on a pine straw bed.
Younger still, I made my way to Greylock, my frenetic innocence suspended at once, then dismissed for eternity. The mountain doubled as my manly bed.
That Ripon morning was love’s grace defined. That hand-sewn quilt, my romantic sublime.
Rob S. Friedman 