Cedar and I enjoyed a bit of candle time last night. In the gentle glow I told her how Brandon found foxfire. She wanted to hear it again. I also told her about the dark mountain and how Brandon climbed Bear Butte. He'd go quickly to the top and wait for me. I would struggle on and catch glimpses of him through the trees. That was before the big fire that destroyed so much of the forest on the mountain. How we'd laugh when I finally arrived.
They say of Thoreau "he lived for the day, not cumbered or mortified by his memory." Dear Henry; I am often under the burden of memory. While I too live for the day old times drift through my thoughts like the memory of Mother's bread fresh from the oven can waft it's way to me across the gulf of time. The smell of rain can carry me to the long ago when I was 8 years old. I can see the old cars reflected on black asphalt, hear them splash through greasy puddles and find Cathy McCord smiling down on me. Her gray eyes full of kind affection.
When Gladys Taber found her home on a dead end road on a stormy day she heard it say, "I've been waiting for you. What took you so long?" Does a home wait for me? Will we recognize each other when we meet? What kind of neighbors will greet me?
Mae S. wrote, "If there is not enough space in a life... for the soul to breath (unrestricted by frustration and exhaustion) something is wrong." She also wrote, "I am giving myself this morning... I have three poems buzzing around..." What buzzes in me this morning is a 9AM appointment at the garage. Then the wood must come in and the ash go out. Buzz-buzz. I brought the water last night but the bucket must be spilled and cleaned. Buzz-buzz. Ah, the 1995 Oldsmobile. The loyal and dependable Juliet (never call her Julie). She nearly never gets a bath and is blemished by rust. Her bumper boasts an assortment of fading stickers so she is quickly found in a crowded parking lot and easily identified on the road. She tells me maintainance is everything.
They say of Thoreau "he lived for the day, not cumbered or mortified by his memory." Dear Henry; I am often under the burden of memory. While I too live for the day old times drift through my thoughts like the memory of Mother's bread fresh from the oven can waft it's way to me across the gulf of time. The smell of rain can carry me to the long ago when I was 8 years old. I can see the old cars reflected on black asphalt, hear them splash through greasy puddles and find Cathy McCord smiling down on me. Her gray eyes full of kind affection.
When Gladys Taber found her home on a dead end road on a stormy day she heard it say, "I've been waiting for you. What took you so long?" Does a home wait for me? Will we recognize each other when we meet? What kind of neighbors will greet me?
Mae S. wrote, "If there is not enough space in a life... for the soul to breath (unrestricted by frustration and exhaustion) something is wrong." She also wrote, "I am giving myself this morning... I have three poems buzzing around..." What buzzes in me this morning is a 9AM appointment at the garage. Then the wood must come in and the ash go out. Buzz-buzz. I brought the water last night but the bucket must be spilled and cleaned. Buzz-buzz. Ah, the 1995 Oldsmobile. The loyal and dependable Juliet (never call her Julie). She nearly never gets a bath and is blemished by rust. Her bumper boasts an assortment of fading stickers so she is quickly found in a crowded parking lot and easily identified on the road. She tells me maintainance is everything.
I finished "A Room With A View" and have begun "Memoirs of a Geisha" by Arthur Golden.
No comments:
Post a Comment