Rest For The Weary

     Several weeks ago, my grandson and I drove to Rest For the Weary. Lost in thought, I passed the road that led to my brother's farm. We ended up going the long route from the opposite side. We snaked along a winding road until a worn and beaten path appeared. We slowly turned onto it. It was cold and wet; puddles were everywhere, and the potholes and ruts rattled our bones. 

     In the distance, we saw a cluster of trees. As we crept towards the farm, memories flooded my mind, and my skull became a tomb full of ghosts. Echoes of the past reverberated in my head, but Gabey brought me out of my reverie. "I hope we don't get stuck out here, gramps."

     "Especially with zombies roaming the countryside," I said, pretending to be frightened. We are obsessed with anything related to zombies, and it helped lighten my mood and ease my sorrow. 

     Finally, the road opened up to the abandoned farm. I said, "Keep your head on a swivel. Walking dead might amble out of the mist!" Gabey nervously giggled. "Remember," I continued, "when you were four, and I'd drive you to karate class? We imagined undead were chasing us, and we'd wipe them out with our zombie zappers?"

     "Yeah," he replied, "and we listened to Hall and Oats on the way there."

     "You memorized the lyrics to several of their songs," I said, nudging him. Gabey smiled. It was a good memory. Then I saw The Corn Crib, grew silent, and almost wept. "That's his church," I whispered. This was his dream. He loved the farm. Everywhere I look, I see him. It's as if I hear him calling."

     "It's sad," Gabey said as he scanned the farm for any signs of the walking dead.

     "Don't worry, Gabey. I'll fend them off until you make it to the SUV, then I'll dash for it. Unless, of course, I manage to wipe them out." We laughed as I reversed the vehicle, getting as close to the front porch as possible.

     As we loaded the kitchen hutch, I reminisced about the love that Albert, Shio, and I shared. I recounted anecdotes about the three amigos, which had him smiling and me sighing. I said I felt I could bring Albert back if I wished hard enough. I emphasized the importance of loving our families, respecting one another, and appreciating every moment of our lives. I urged him to let his loved ones know how much he cares for and values them.

     We secured the kitchen cabinet before I returned to the porch to clean up the mouse droppings while Gabey waited outside. As I worked, I couldn't help but think of Albert,  and I thought I heard his voice. Suddenly, a bell tolled, and I quickly reached the door. G stood before a giant cast-iron bell which was suspended between two thick posts. 

     "I didn't notice that before," I said.

     "Neither did I," he replied.

     "I guess we should get going, Gabe."

     "Okay," he answered, heading toward the Pilot.

     I grabbed the rope and pulled it hard, causing the bell to clang repeatedly. I tolled the bell for Albert. Closing my eyes, I imagined him walking toward me. My heart felt it was about to burst. When I opened my eyes, I saw Gabriel staring at me. I giggled foolishly and quickly yelled, "We better make a run for it, G. I just rang the dinner bell for the undead. They'll be coming soon!!" 

     We hurried to the SUV, and Gabey locked the door as soon as we were inside. "We're safe now," I said. "This vehicle is impenetrable!"

     As we drove away, a profound sense of loss washed over me. I thought about the abandoned farm just a few miles outside of Yorkville, in the prairie state, in the middle of America, where my brother's dreams were buried. I whispered a prayer and said my goodbyes.

     Gabey listened to music as he stared out the window. Looking back, I saw the farm fading into the mist, and I realized this would be the last time I'd see Rest for the Weary. I was overcome by a flood of emotions and felt a lump in my throat. I caught my breath, my eyes filled with tears as I grunted, "I'll run over any undead that gets in our way." I cranked the radio and bellowed, "Let's rock and roll!" Gabey chuckled as I turned onto the main road, and we prepared to do some zombie ass-kicking.

To get lost is to learn the way.

"To get lost is to learn the way. "*

I was chatting with Doug, a 92-year-old neighbor, and towards the end of our conversation, he said, "I wish I'd been a better human being. I have so many regrets."

"Who doesn't have regrets?" I replied. That's part of the journey. It's how we find ourselves, our soul." I sheepishly smiled because I thought, " Who am I to give a 92-year-old man advice? But he nodded and patted my shoulder. 

"I'll talk to you later, Este," he said, "I have to take care of Thelma." His wife is 97. She's sharp, but her body is failing her. Doug walked away unbalanced, bent, and pulled closer to Mother Earth. One day, she will embrace him as she does all of us.

Anyway, that's life, Gloria. That's the journey. There's always conflict between mind, body, and soul. Sometimes you feel you're losing your mind, and other times you feel connected and in tune with God and His creation. The only difference between you and me is that you've just started your voyage, and I'm more than halfway into mine. 

An anecdote. Yesterday morning, I woke and felt lost. A deep sadness tortured my mind, my body was in pain, and it ripped my soul apart, but I persevered. I said a quick prayer and forced myself forward step by step. I continued down the path. In the evening, while trimming evergreen bushes, a groundhog raced across the yard as crows dive-bombed him and blue jays chirped crazily. Suddenly, I was aware of the colors, sounds, and scents around me. It was euphoric, and all I could do was thank the Creator for the moment. 

You see, we're always between "losing our mind and finding our soul." Somewhere along the path, we find ourselves. Depending on our religious beliefs, we see the "way." It's being spiritual and allowing it to guide you, no matter how long it takes. Just appreciate your life and where it leads. 

*African proverb

Mi Abuela Panchita

At First She Came To Me Pure

   At first she came to me pure,
dressed only in her innocence;
and I loved her as we love a child.

   Then she began putting on 
clothes she picked up somewhere;
and I hated her, without knowing it.

   She gradually became a queen,
the jewelry was blinding ...
What bitterness and rage!

   ... She started going back towards nakedness.
And I smiled.

   Soon she was back to the single shift
of her old innocence.
I believed in her a second time.

   Then she took off the cloth
and was entirely naked ...
Naked poetry, always mine,
that I have loved my whole life!

by Juan Ramon Jimenez
translated by Robert Bly

Sister

Sister,
what should I have done?

Your laughter
unraveled our Master's Lent.
Your Mongolian eyes
shut out the light

(slits of black stone).


(Where was our Savior?
Is this what older brothers
should be?)

As you rose --
the final arc --
day unveiled 
the balance of God's hand.
Night scurried
into the thicket
of the wicked world.

(What was its name --
oh, Great God?)

You imbued me
with power.
I became a Danite,
son of Manoah,
and faced him
with an ass's bone.
I would not let him grind.
Sister, not this time,
I would not let him cleave.

On the day of rest,
I brought you home
and prayed for you --
your resurrection.
But you were lost,
entombed in clay,
and I was left
with my laments.

Now,
a man,
full of iniquity,
I await your knock.
Sister,
please don't weep.
Day is done,
and twilight is a thousand candles
God burns for you.

The Bones of My Father

1

There are no dry bones

here in this valley. The skull

of my father grins

at the Mississippi moon

from the bottom

of the Tallahatchie,

the bones of my father

are buried in the mud

of these creeks and brooks that twist

and flow their secrets to the sea.

but the wind sings to me

here the sun speaks to me

of the dry bones of my father.

      2

There are no dry bones

in the northern valleys, in the Harlem alleys

young / black / men with knees bent

nod on the stoops of the tenements

and dream

of the dry bones of my father.

And young white longhairs who flee

their homes, and bend their minds

and sing their songs of brotherhood

and no more wars are searching for

my father’s bones.

      3

There are no dry bones here.

We hide from the sun.

No more do we take the long straight strides.

Our steps have been shaped by the cages

that kept us. We glide sideways

like crabs across the sand.

We perch on green lilies, we search

beneath white rocks...

THERE ARE NO DRY BONES HERE

The skull of my father

grins at the Mississippi moon

from the bottom

of the Tallahatchie.

BY ETHERIDGE KNIGHT

i hear a stream

5 am
i hear a stream
birds bitching over the first worm
(been eating sardine for 2 hours
'til it stuck in my throat)

remember
when i first touched my queen's
pink wicked lips
she burned incense & faced mecca
said she loved arab flesh

i adore worldly stuff
don't you know
she smiled crookedly
a nasty grin
i swallowed her brown nipples
black olives

you're a salty fellow aren't you
she pushed me away
i flicked my tongue
rose on my tiptoes
expanded & swayed
bled desire through my eyes
i was horn toad
& she danced on the sharp tips
of my prehistoric horns

my lips ache
she moaned
& scratched her crotch
a smoke signal
dispersed too quickly
couldn't read it

on my way home
almost ran off the overpass
crushed the front right side
of my old ram
sat by the roadside
& watched
the tail of a lizard
wondered
if it was my spirit
frantic to escape

must be 5 am
down a dark ally
between titsworth & seminary
old man jesús
drags his cart of aluminum cans
somewhere
i hear a stream

but it could be fire