Memories from the Old House
I struggle to go back there, as it lay hundreds of miles afar.
Burns too close in my mind, watching her leave me in such a state of despair and besotted foolery.
Still, the allurement remains to visit there again although the land is dry and parched.
All I have left are the vaguely memorized paths and roads, leading to that old house which time left 42 years ago.
We got married right after the war, far south of Fresno, childless by choice.
She took my grandmothers ring to drive two hours by car to the nearest supermarket.
On every other weekend we would cook salmon and drink wine on a blanket.
But now no one wants the old property anymore, except the birds and the rain and the wind, they dance to the melodies only nature can sing.
The sky takes the role of the conductor, the trees sound out the cello.
The earth lies beneath my feet, but all around a lonely silence and regret, that I will finally admit in my aging senescence.
Far too late for forgiveness, the darker days and arguments now lost in the forgetfulness. a blank space upon another space.
She rests in good remembrance, sworn by angels, protected from the Devil.
Now I only see these beautiful eyes in the yellow hills, sweet mouths talking.
All things of the distant past, as I lay in the tall grass smiling.
Waiting for God to take me gently.
Animation and Poetry by Erik Matson 12/2022
