I have come once again to a place of memories,
across miles of roads that though traveled long ago
quickly become familiar.
I am not completely at ease,
convinced that I have forgotten something though
I cannot discover what it might be.
The winter has been mild,
even here where it seems the land has ever worn a
a mantle of white, there is only brown grass.
I come seeking the soft pleasure of snow,
to be warmed by a grandma’s fragile kiss
and released from my frozen perceptions.
Words from the past hang in the air like icicles from the eaves,
grown sharp from frustration to subtly prick,
and I, as I am wont to do, wonder what I have done wrong.
The memories that reside in this place are not all pleasant
like the aroma of farm that permeates the air.
I take a deep breath as I have done in the past and smile.
But as I walk outside I cannot help but wonder
if I am following in the footsteps of others
whose stuff I inadvertently step in.
Finding peace within myself,
between myself and those closest to me,
is as evasive as the snow has been,
as hidden as the gnawing thought of that something precious
I still believe I have left at home.
Forgiveness is a difficult thing to grasp,
melting through numb fingers,
though what I wish for most is a forgetfulness
of the scolding conversations that play within,
that give voice to present prickly words.
Strangely enough deep down inside me burns a spark of faith.
There are patches of white here and there.
Last night a brief squall blew through
enough to coat the road and cover the
black lines made by the car’s tires.
I can only continue to travel through these rememberings,
not necessarily to understand all of the feelings that
are given life by the journey,
but to let them simply be
and let them go,
like my clumsy tracks covered by
freshly fallen snow.
Originally posted February 19, 2012