One morning state police escort us to your grave the next my flight is canceled. Maintenance issues breaking out all over. You would speak of a “grand theory,” something tying all this together, but you had none yourself, none that reached me then or now as I drive your car slowly into the tranquil streets of my youth. Here is where I learned to ride a bike, on this high hill that is no hill at all. And still I fell. And now you descend and still I fall. And here is where I learned to doubt, in the chapel where we donned black skullcaps that meant nothing, I tell you. If god speaks it is elsewhere. And here are my own children rooted and uncertain watching me speak to you. You watched the news every night worried if I did not make “air”— traveling, sick, useless, lost. Now that you are gone— traffic parted by the state police— can I, too, disappear? Copyright © 2015 by Jeffrey Brown. Used with permission of the author. |
0 comments:
Post a Comment