I had walked onto spongy earth. Cattails and other straw-colored reeds had been matted flat onto the ground, maybe by a flood from a nearby creek, which was slightly swollen. It was early and the sun was a deep red. Behind me, the school where I teach was filling with students and in a few minutes the morning bell would ring and I'd begin teaching for the day. But, right now, I stood by the creek, recalling a time many years earlier in the Adirondacks when I sat beside a mountain stream straining to hear something; I wanted a sign that there was something greater than the water flowing quickly over slippery stones and down the mountainside. I was alone, having driven up to the mountain spot from my home on Long Island, where I lived with my mom and three sisters. I became angry and frustrated with the creek and the mountain and the woods when all I heard was silence, everything seemed so pointless, and I walked away suffering my defeat. Now I stood by another creek. The night before I received news that a friend of mine from high school had died. He was a year younger than I, and he had two children the same age as mine. I thought about the nights we spent together with friends in the woods, at house-parties, behind the medical center, smoking and drinking, laughing, telling our stories. I imagined standing beside him and telling him that in 25 years he would be gone, taken from the earth. I told him that he would have children and they would lose their father. I thought about his response and I felt sad and I yielded to all the things we cannot see. I returned to the swollen creek, looking down into the clear water which was making an oily swirl around a smooth gray branch. I could hear birdsong in the bare oaks and green pines. The air felt cold and no breeze blew. I smelled the wet, decaying earth. I didn't strain for anything beyond this. I turned a few times, looking around at it all, and then returned to school.
No comments:
Post a Comment