Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Premonitions of Nostalgia.

Up before the sun again,
Damp and uncomfortable from the morning dew
with a busted knee and dirty feet.
Across the tent my dad sleeps,
but I decide to let him instead of begging for company.

It's only me, God and Leanor's poems
that and the nagging urge for reflection.
After all, I've been up since before 6
and all I'm left with are my thoughts.

Across the tent, Dad rolls over.
Just awake enough to free himself from the sleeping bag,
but not freed from the unending exhaustion.
I just go back to writing.

I have no regrets this weekend
I just wish I had done a little more,
Prayed a little longer, Worshipped a little harder,
laughed until I coughed up dust, spoke more boldly,
Cried more, honestly.

I've gotten too good at holding back tears
Tears for friends I'll never see again,
              Friends I'll miss until next August rolls around,
              Friends I've just met.
Tears for the busted knee,
Tears it's not more busted so I'd have a battle scar to tell my stories about and look at to remember.
Tears I didn't seek God more,
Tears that my heart still needs perfecting, and I can't crack the layers of rock
that make me so very good at holding back tears.
                                                                                        I guess those are regrets.
Well, now, tears I can't be painfully honest about myself
without covering it up with some quip to keep myself from feeling vulnerable.

Oh God, I'm so afraid of myself.
Of the person I am beneath the layers of the person I want to be.
God, Let's bury that person.
Let's keep the positive and throw out the negative.
Teach me to be brutally honest, teach me love.

The sun peeks over the mountain. 7:30 AM.
I wipe away a tear and my dad drowsily asks me to get the car so we can leave.
There it is. The final note of finality.
It's really done.
So I get up, find the keys, and leave the tent.
As I begin to walk through the mountain road to the car, I wipe away a tear.
A tear of resolution and a premonition of Nostalgia.

1 comment:

Laurie Poor said...

Wow I wish I had found this earlier. I love it! you are just such a good writer. Your heart bleeds blue...or black it comes out through the point of the pen in your hand. I love you!
MOM!