It’s early evening, the chores are done,
and the sun is setting on the 1960s.
Young people in San Francisco are conspicuously hip —
not one having heard of rural Saskatchewan.
Arms to his side, the boy poses in front of a farm house —
his home, faux-brick asphalt siding,
pitted concrete walk and step,
peeling tin water barrel,
coal box and canvass cover,
all set among a thinning thatch of scrub poplar,
and a path to a creek that has power over the boy.
He’s in the near-spring of his life,
lucky beyond measure,
wise in ignorance,
clever in innocence,
habituated to happiness,
dressed in his mother’s love and his sister’s handed-down clothes.
He’s fed on simple faith, homemade bread and thick cream —
cream he separated himself, butter he churned on his own,
and a faith he has no reason to question.
Within a season he’ll discover mirrors,
page the gloss of catalogues,
study urbanites, learn bohemian, read of New York,
listen to Chicago.
At the creek in the pond by the beaver dam, his body
swims naked beside him, now, mere and insufficient.
His sock-holes, farm-chores and hay-wagon extraction —
a gathering embarrassment.
By Easter, like Peter, he’ll betray his own setting,
erase himself from the scene.
All his dreams, full of distance.
He steps away from the boy,
takes measures to shroud him,
makes a plan to abandon him. Succeeds.
From his chair by the window on the island
the old man holds the photo, looks closer, steps inside —
the boy has his eyes closed:
perhaps a flash bulb,
perhaps a shaft of echoed sun,
perhaps the anointing of the 23rd Psalm,
perhaps a particular blindness
that will be his long companion,
perhaps all — and these: a prevenient prayer of forgiveness
for an old man, and, a prefiguring benediction
upon the necessary betrayal of what is,
for other paths of possibility and uncertainty.
We all have those pictures. Thank you for letting me step inside yours.
We certainly do have those time capsules. Thank you for responding!
Hauntingly Beautiful
Thank you for your kindness Ananda.
This brought tears as the story unfolded, evoking personal memories of a parallel journey . Beautiful
Thank you for that Kellie!
Wonderful words ,, and Happy Birthday my friend , and many more to come , Phil
Thanks so much Phil!
Ah, Stephen. A perfect benediction on the morning after Henry and I finished reading The Yearling. Excruciatingly real endings/beginnings. Thank you.
Thank you Joyce! My recollection is vague, but I do appreciate the connection.
A profound reflection on ‘the necessary betrayal of of what is for other paths of possibility and uncertainty’! – – akin to our experience of UCOs (Unexpected Compelling Opportunities)!
–and Happy Birthday, Steve! Glad to hear you are still having them!
With love, M & I
Thank you Ike and Millie! Here’s to the UCOs of life.
Another gift you give US on your birthday! You have a way of elucidating the mysterious. Love your writing Stephen. Hope you had a great birthday… Thank you!
Thank you Doug! That means a lot. And thank you for your own inspired music.
Visited that farm yard a few years ago and it has fallen into much deterioration which happily you have not
That’s sad. And thank you Paul.
In picture f the farm yard from Sept 2016, the boy has been supplanted by trees
Thanks, Steve – so profound. Found myself in prolonged tears as I reflected my own journey – a grief for what can never be recovered, and yet a journey that has had so many rewards nevertheless. We collect “what ifs” and losses, and yet, the best is yet to come.
About the trees … old men plant trees!
Your sister’s hand-me-down clothes?! – some things are well left behind!
Thanks Sam, as always, for you insightful reading.
A beautiful reflection. Thank you for sharing it…
Thank you Adela!
I know this terrain well….a great poem….about a great time….and to look back….oh my….also love Chicago (the group) ….happy birth day.
Thank you so much Terry Ann!