Live in your house instead of on top of it. Live with the objects of your life. The objects will outlive the experiences and along with your memory will be all you have left.
I see these blue plates. I remember when my parents bought them at J. J. Woolworths in Norway Maine. They brought a box out of the store and put it in the trunk. These blue plates. I ate upon them thousands of times with my parents. The scratches collectively form one set of tree rings that trace out the nights of my youth. The forks and knives left marks, but voices were speaking then too, bouncing off the plates. Light was bouncing off us onto them, too.
Those nights filled with the wonder and questing of some sort that left a hole the filling of which, today, forms the object of my current wondering and questing.
I am filled with a nostalgia for my youth, which in retrospect, bordered on perfect in so many respects. But not just for what was “mine”, but the whole context. I miss the 80’s. Probably only because my primary contact with what is known as the “80’s” was through TV, at a distance. I miss the 90’s. I don’t miss the 00’s. Bush’s era, I feel it was a waste. But I’ll miss it some day, probably.
Love is such a dangerous thing. When it is absent, we feel lost. We struggle to find it or something to open it up. Our experience can become defined by our incompleteness. But as it slowly opens within us, we make ourselves so vulnerable. Surely the thing we have let ourselves love will be torn from us. Time will do this tearing if nothing else steps up to the task.
Opening myself up to a sensitivity that I had hardened myself to over the years has left me to bear the weight of past loss finally finding room to express itself.
Even if I were to stop aging,
I can never have my youth back,
I can never have a day back.
Unspoken words will forever remain that way.
Light will not shine from those faces into these eyes again.
We can’t but lose.
And, Time will keep whipping us onward,
Towards its next gifts.
It’s not so much a poem as the kernel of a poem that could be worked into a poem by numerous textual transformations that the mood of the poem does not lend itself to at the moment.