Dickinson once wrote, After great pain, a formal feeling comes--- I feel awfully formal this morning, bleak and cold. The morning developed in black and white and not by the great developer... perhaps by some modernistic infidel who left it blurry and grainy, inscrutable... The distance from home grows further, I more distant within myself with each step, memories piling up in a macabre mosaic, my mind the epicenter of the apocalypse, I, the lone survivor, having to piece it all back together but I have no tools and most certainly do not desire to work that hard for company... not today. When I have fears that I may cease to be, Keats wrote... I walk and think of the footprints I left behind. Borges knew, He is divested of the diverse world, of faces, which still stay as once they were, of the adjoining streets, now far away, and of the concave sky, once infinite. How blind we become to tomorrow and yet, how clearly we can see yesterday... Dancing ribbons of light hovering over a snow covered horizon the air wearing a chastity belt protecting her from penetration by the phallic towers of civilization. I was twenty-two the Arctic whitish blue with cold that chilled to the marrow of our bones. We were all young then. Some of us grew older. Some of us never got a chance to...my friends. No hired hand can help us to gather this crop. The seeds died in the ground. Their path was shorter than mine. I still wonder why? Standing alone deep inside the Australian outback night...me painted like a bush. Hiding. The desert illuminated with the light of a trillion stars. The Earth and space joined in an indefinable sphere of red, blue, and white speckles on a sable background floating within the circle surrounded by infinity in all directions. The Southern Cross pointing at me. I could not hide. I was thirty-one, alone and wiser. A quaint little field of Spring violets in the Georgia pines. The scent of pine tar and auburn hair, laughter and my name spoken like I never heard it before, as I have never heard it since. I wrote her name on a tree. The tree died and rotted away. I was seventeen and in love... I wanted to write her some words she would remember. I didn’t write then. She forgot anyway. The face of a young woman who calls me her hero, as if I had ever done anything heroic. The greatest thing I ever did was father her. The wind and chimes, my daughter and me. Snodgrass wrote and won The Prize with his words about fathers and daughters. I can’t remember a damn one. I remember every word she ever wrote to me. She’s twenty now. I miss every year of her life. Every day of mine. My wife will have coffee waiting. Perhaps breakfast, if I am lucky. How lucky I am. How like a winter hath my absence been. Wonderful the coffee will be. I must hold her face in my hands and kiss her with a thank you. The morning seems clearer the air easier to breathe the house not as far away. Me less distant. I’m forty-one. At home where I belong once again. Tony Spivey Copyright 1999, 2000
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