Lost In America
There is a river nearby
A black green mystery of water
That standing at one end
One can hardly see the dim
Outline of trees on the other side.
The river is deep
And in the stillness
Of early morning
A mist comes
Off it
So thick and impervious
That you literally can't
See your hand
In front of your face.
We frequented the place
My father and I
On Sunday mornings
After the sun burned the mist away
I, as usual, hurrying up
To keep up with him.
Years later when I left home
My father shook my hand
A formality I was
Unaccustomed to
And one that left me puzzled.
Awkwardly, we said goodbye
Then he walked away
His broad back
Slowly fading
Into the caverns of Grand Central
Until he disappeared
In the noise and smoke of
The station.
When the train whistle blew
My heart jumped
I felt a thrill
Of adventure
My life had a purpose
Finally, I was on my own!
Events tell a story
I made mistakes
Stumbling from impossible dreams
To vague ideas
And found that loneliness
Was all intimidating
Painfully, I realized
All I had to offer life
Was my own confusion.
Not every life has a storybook ending
And mine was no different
I retuned home
After one year.
Restless one night
I stood on the river's edge
Listening to a solitary boat crossing the river
Plying its cargo up and down the coast
In the darkness a buoy gave up its warning
A deep clanging sound in the mist
Turning to see where the sound came from
I stood motionless
And listened
There was nothing but silence
And the soft lapping of waves on the shore
As it was since the beginning of time.
In the quiet
I remembered the early morning walks with my father
A familiar Sunday morning ritual
I now missed.
Overhead a moon shone
Casting a pale light on everyone and everything
And I stood still
Knowing that I had lost my way
Knowing that the river was calling from the night
Knowing that I was a solitary figure
Lost in America.
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