Hometown

Hometown              

A Visitation

Prologue

The Summons

I went down home for a viewing

And went farther than the miles

I drove going into remembering

The nearly forgotten but for

The roads and streets and land

I was raised on, in

                                    Forgotten dreams,

Remembered once again,

What could have been

Not turning into anything,

A leaving, unknown to me,

That was an escape from as much

As an escape into,

                                But, of course,

I did not know much of anything then.

I drove to the funeral home.

Limitations of the Measure

The miles I have covered

Are not equal to the distance

I have gone

                   Down, across

The soul and heart

Backtracking years

To say, “I am here!” which is both

True and false

                        The way remembering a place

You’re from can make the past come alive,

Today the shadow of yesterday.

                                                  So I hung on the cross

Of then and now

                              Tomorrow holding both

And looked to find where my heart was,

If my soul had wondered off

Fighting the urge to run which gives

Such power to what’s chasing

To guarantee practically to get caught.

I had come for my friend who had

Died and couldn’t, didn’t want

To forget that

                        Took a deep breath and entered

The funeral home once again.

A Steady Step Does Not Guarantee the Ground

The ground was not solid as I drove

Roads and walked streets I had not

For over twenty years.

                                     The viewing room

Was the same one dad was in

When my sister said, “That’s not

Him!” – of course, the dead are not

Who they have been.

                                 So remembering occurred,

The flow of places bringing up images

The only constant of whom was me.

From childhood to early manhood

I saw what I had not recalled

When almost daily I drove the roads,

Walked the streets of which, now,

I was a visitor.

                       High Street

Had changed like most small cities

Gutted by outlying malls

Except for a few churches,

Bars, boutiques, parking lots,

The library with a sandwich board

Announcing

                 Humanities

                 & Quality

                 Of Life

                 Panel

              March 20

             6 PM –

Then a few remaining stores with family

Names I remembered

                                  Remembering scenes

And feelings I thought long ago

Forgotten

                Now, at least, a shadow of what

Had been remained in me needing

But a visit to resurrect them.

We played rugby together,

Drank beer, sang rugby songs,

And all basked in his presence

That drew everyone in as he spoke

In broken Tonga-English we understood.

So I didn’t stay long, even if I could

Have I would have quietly paid

My respects and been gone

Driving away from my hometown

Once again

                     Not certain if it was

The last time or just an intermission.

Time and Distance Is Never Time and Distance

I have begun to notice how when

I travel I am making a concurrent

Journey back in remembering,

Recalling the nearly forgotten though on

This journey there is no known destination

As what I pass, hold, grasp, let go

Comes and goes as no landmarks or

Mile-markers nor routes appear on

The road I’m on holding only some

Destination of there becoming here upon

Arrival.

              Inside, I see what arises out

Of a casualty that is rarely clear

In a logic tight as any dream.

Longing and desire and regret play

Some haunting melody; I feel some refrain

I cannot recall but recognize

And the sigh escapes my lips as if

Holding the one I love saying, “See you

A little later”, five little words

Fate and Destiny sometimes changes

To a dance I stumble in, the rhythm

Impossible to catch, the words a blur

Of near meaning.

                              So I travel alone

With dreams still lingering for reasons

I don’t know their possibility of that

Transfiguration long gone.

I saw the church packed was once

Again as my father’s funeral service began.

There Are Places Unwelcoming to a Visit

There were some roads I did not drive,

Some places – the homestead – I did not

Visit.

           It was enough to have gone down

To the hometown and the funeral home

And remember

                          What was there for the taking

From the terrain that had and had not

Changed.

            I have found there is no remembering

Without place, a context wherein what once

Was still is.

                    Tell me if it is different

And I will listen but who we’ve been,

Who we are is tied like a Gordian Knot

To where we’ve been, where we are –

Place. . . the first element of remembering:

Place knew us before we knew ourselves.

To travel to a hometown is to travel a distance

Measured only in remembering which has

No measurement at all regarding time

And destination and intensity,

                                                  The lost longings

And desires felt again, perhaps even alive

Never perhaps having been dead.

There were some places ii didn’t go;

I’m almost certain I will make another visit.

But in less than twenty years;

I don’t have that kind of time –

Life goes on until I, you, we go out.

Pretty clear and simple, isn’t it?

So I will go and make the visit.

The Weight and Heft of Dreams

I am dreaming dreams I’ve dreamed

Before.

           The weight and heft of them

Carrying meanings I once knew, have

Forgotten, now wrestle with again

A little more wary, a little more

Willingness not to demand a victory

On my terms more willing to come to

A draw or the defeat by dream

Which is a questionable surrender

As dreams seem to know better

Than I do.

             I mean dreams of decades

Ago that have been pursuing me

Silently until now and my consistent

Reply no longer with surprise, “You’re back.”

There is something that haunts

With the sense that things could have

Been otherwise but for one or two more

Steps taken, some sense that if the past

Cannot be changed the future, however,

Does not have to remain the same.

Still

I am still travelling in the mood

I found upon visiting a funeral

Home where a friend of mine lay

In the same viewing room as my father

And the openings which began unasked

For still crevicing anew in moments unaware

And then the echo of remembering, the heavy

Breathe of longing and desire not likely

To be stilled tightening my chest

As the only remedy for being there,

Perhaps, for not having gone back

To my home before, perhaps

Calling on me to visit again before another

Two decades pass – which I may or may

Not have:  to go back is to go down

Inside where the forgotten resides

And every dream worth its dream

Speaks again.

                     I don’t know what

I am looking for nor any sense of any

Expectation to arrive in any form I

Know.

         So I abide in the revelry

Of a past that did not forget me

Needing only me to turn inwardly,

Cross the river on that bridge saying,

“You’re back finally” not

Saying when I can leave.

Letting Go To Hold

The sense of letting the past slip

By is stronger this morning.

That which holds weakening its grip

Like a wrestler no longer able

To keep a hold that would give

Victory.

                Curious how what is past

Sometimes, somehow reaches up,

Stops time and now slips to then

And then some morning, like this one

With a steady wind, bright sunlight,

The hint of a season’s end, a season’s

Beginning changes the feeling in the air

Around the heart and soul and body

And mind

                  Into an opaque clarity

Slowly becoming more clear as dreams

Past their possibility of fulfillment

Fade, regret sighs though some

Remembrances remain holding for this

That knows no time.

                              I am sipping coffee

Watching the shadow of trees dance upon

The deck, the sun behind the trees

Though not blinding me as I look out

Whisper, “Today” hear the slightest

Echo, “Tomorrow, too.”

Epilogue

Remembering, Forgetting

It has been ten days since I

Viewed my friend a year

Older than I am in my hometown

Where I was bushwhacked

By remembering what I had not

Recalled for years not having been

There for nearly twenty years.

How strong the lingering presence

Seeing Pat in the same room

Of the funeral home my father

Had been in as I spoke to Pat’s

Wife and children,

                               He in his casket

Looking like a Tonga chief

And then the bifurcated remembering

Began of which I had no control

Of as I drove north into New York,

East to arrive near Boston

A guest in three homes

As if I were a fugitive.

                                   Of course, I was.

Perhaps not more so than when

I stopped in Syracuse a couple

Of hours with a friend who knows

Something of the nature of flight

And how landing is so difficult.

I am five hours from where I Iive.

But now I cast, mostly, the grappling

Hooks of remembering

                                         Which is less

Exhausting than being grappled,

Imbedded by them and their pull against,

Across time as if time loses all meaning

In remembering.

                          It is raining, the sky is grey,

A perfect day for unsought memories

To cast their grappling hooks for me.

I’ll have to pay attention and drive carefully.

-Byron Hoot