Toddling

I recall a prehistoric dream, before I could talk, before I could walk. There was no color except for the glowing red eyes of snorting horses which were galloping around me in ever tightening circles. I cried and wailed like a screaming ambulance until you came to rescue me. The horses never got that close again.

I have memories stored away like black and white snapshots cracking with age; little bits and pieces that remind me of where I was and who I am. Do you remember singing together while driving across that long bridge over the rapids? And surely we could still laugh today over those secret jokes we shared about the Queen!

I was your reflection.

I remember showing off as I let go of your hand, smiling proudly as I toddled down the sidewalk to touch the oak tree a half block so far away.

Later, I ran to the river, where children were stifling curses, to scream obscenities into the wind. I drew portraits of communists on the playground at the Catholic school while pretending to pray. All the traffic lights were red, but my brakes were broken. Shadows chased me, forcing me to wear a mask in daylight.

Then you were gone. My mirror went dark. The trespasses could not be forgiven. I was found guilty by a judge and jury of one. For forty years and forty nights I was in the desert seeking a path.

I don't believe you hear me (and really now .... neither do you), but you are here with me as long as I am here. As I walk to the horizon in the tremulous evening I recall the golden dawn when dusk was an eternity away. There was always time we knew. But in the way we were I never did hear, I never did say the words that needed to be heard. So here today I say that I love you with all my heart for being what you were for me.

I dreamed last night that I was toddling back. I saw your grateful smile and the tear of joy in your eye. The oak was always close by.