Remembering... Back home... Don't believe it, just fiction. |
I wonder how the old folks are at home, today... In hindsight, while silvery trails of recall are leading me back to myself, I shake my head to mutter, “Good fortune, I hope.” For the hay must be brittle under the July sun and Uncle Jim must be threading his way on the gravel path through the twisted black trees with dogs leaping along the curves of his legs. And warmly nested, Aunt Madge, in her pink paisley dress two inches below her knees, must be breaking the eggs into a bowl with a hen’s cluck. And Janie, with affection for the sun, spread like a pancake, breathless, on the front porch, must be daydreaming of stealing away to meet her fireman, playing cards inside the fire station. The rest, however, are lost to me within an immense prairie where the wink of an eye may have meant many things, such as me suddenly leaving inside a train, motionless, while I imagined the sounds of Tony’s guitar with a fondness, which still plays his folk-tune-blues inside my mind. Most everything’s a shadow now, like scars of invasive surgery, yet, I’m reminded of the ironic presence of memory bickering and snapping again. Yes, I wonder how they get along back there, without me apologizing for things I didn’t do, in anticipation. |