It's pouring in Monson, rain drumming against the metal porch roof beneath my window, rain drumming all night long. I did not sleep as well as I'd hoped, but better than I might have, so I guess that's something. And I did have a reasonably productive evening--writing two draft blurts based around musical prompts--which does make me feel better.
Now I'm sitting at the apartment window, looking across at the general store's window, waiting for the open sign to turn on so that I can wander out into the rain and get some coffee. On Route 15, headlights fly past; they've been flying past all night. Always, people are going someplace, though up here it can be hard to imagine where.
On the drive yesterday, I felt a pang, again and again, as the road looped and the forest rose up, looming yet undramatic, a hundred shades of green with a pale haze of gold. Once this was my everyday vision. But those years are gone, and now I am a visitor, like anyone else.
2 comments:
Dawn, your post is elegiac, and there is a poem shimmering in there, too:
"Always, people are going someplace, though up here it can be hard to imagine where."
I kind of want to work with that idea, myself. Maybe it's the season, the rain, the string of losses... but yes, that is a poem.
Stay dry, and have fun with the kids!
Yes, Carlene, there certainly is a poem in that sentence. I was thinking that we are always a visitor to the past.
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