You are not who you were
which is not
to say
you are no longer who you were
but that
I see you different-
so differently now.
Through eyes that opened
only over
time
and so I come back here now
and
at first, feel
nothing.
No sinking, no sublimation.
Feelings as flat as this land,
until I drop in the grass
and remember not who
you were but who I was.
The dreams I birthed here, along with two baby girls
and your kindnesses shown me-
my art. Remember?
And I see that we tried here in the field of dreams for a miracle
but it was not heaven,
nor was it hell. It was -
what?
Vast space for trying. I've realized lately that I'm not much good at anything
but
trying.
My talent is for trying.
It's the air and
the breeze of this state.
My aspirations swaying like the clothes
I hung on the line in the back yard.
The clouds trick memories with
their fat
fluffiness, prompting pretty
promises.
Maybe it wasn't your fault.
But I can't come
back or go back
because, also, your arms around me,
that sensation is
so vague, I have my doubts
as to its truth.
And we departed like thieves in the night,or rather,
I did, you'd left much earlier and somehow I knew I was leaving for good and
taking my heart with me, there would be no turning back.
And I see two people we sort of knew
within the first hour
and why do I blurt out
to the
second?
Maybe
because the first has read my words and knows
and so when I tell it to
the next and she asks
if it
was my choice, I pause just long enough
that my answer sounds a bit less than
honest. And then it's awkward, me sharing
with a stranger. I don't miss this lack of
anonymity
at all.
It's funny how places have a way of defining, how they represent so much.
How they transport
in our blood so that even a three year old seems to sense that she belongs here, if only by
birthright.
"I want to
be alone here," she tells me. And I get it.
It's how I feel enveloped by the heat
and
driving past low, brown mountains. She
marks the need by lack of city noise and softer weather.
I envy her in a way,
wondering why
this place can't
call me.
Why I feel only a hazed sense of familiarity here. There's still
few places or people I want
to see.
Sitting close to my mother,
wanting this closeness
I see what
this place means to her,
that she knows it's in
her blood.
I understand. I see that she, too,
chooses isolation here and also
I see why I do not.
These homes, temporary though
they are,
give illusion of permanence and though our minds chart many a course, our hearts stay
planted.
But I just wish I could remember us better. Here or there or anywhere. It's fading so quickly
now.
Was it ever real?
Or was this
time and place laid low
like a shadow, an imitation of our
thoughts?
