The end of an era overlapped with
The beginning of another, and yet
Nothing had really changed:
My memories are still those
Of the child I would continue to be
For a good while yet.

If I was in mourning, I could not be
Certain what I missed: there had been
No tears, no hasty exit to solitude.
Perhaps the mountains meant I had
Never felt smaller, even though I knew
They could be scaled with machines
To do the hard work for me.

There was much I did not understand,
And even more I did not appreciate,
My prepubescent brain trained on
Other targets. Being in a town I did
Not know existed has become
A neat little metaphor for
Those long, lonely years.

More than a quarter century on, I am
Older than my parents were then,
Longing to return but knowing I cannot,
Longing to ask but fearing the answers,
Longing to appreciate what I saw but
Failed to see. My memories remain
The missing pieces of someone else’s puzzle.

05/08/2019

Posted on 05/10/2019
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