Scranton revisited

May 27, 2018

We always return to the scene of the crime, even when it’s not a crime at all, retracing out steps through a past we cannot escape nor want to, remembering to remembering those brief moments when we came together and found each other, and then lost it all.

The paths we walked have altered, the tree house closed and contemned, because of vandals that not merely stole something we needed to possess, but access to a memory we thought involatile, right out of the vault of our hearts and minds, though still at their feet, down below, the falls still flow, heavier due to the heavy rains that preceded us, new paths leading to the place we stood, making it earlier to get their and back, even in memory.

This, of course, is the wrong season, leaves turning to green unlike that time when they faded into a coat of many colors, each somehow painting us for some eternal dance as we strode paths as if they were new.

Rain still lingers in the air, and still drips from the bits of branch, like tears cried for a reason only we can comprehend, our footsteps still following a track we made before, and must make again, over and over, as if imprinted in our genes that we must forever walk this way, and remember what we remember, and do what we did then again.

I come here this time after a long time, estranged, from you and from the other loved ones for which this place has always been important, time having passed all of us, and passed judgement on us as well, shaping us into older, weaker, but still strong beings who must continue to struggle against forces we can barely comprehend.

I walk these old paths the way the native Americans’ did, knowing they will always lead to the same place, feel the same way, and give me the same sense of hope.

I walk here because even though you are many, many miles away, I still find you hear, this season or the season when the leaves turn, and we feel the breath an autumn wind on our cheeks, like an eternal kiss.