* This piece is a response to Rob Wilcher’s beautiful poem “Carry the Water”.
The stream eddies,
as his hand drifts.
Tell me.
Tell me what it’s like.
What I won’t see.
What do I say?
Do I tell him of the
hot, wet embrace of a lover;
the heartache of rejection;
the elation of success; or
the darkness of failure.
The tears of uncertainty;
the conceit of surety;
the aches of old joints;
the exhaustion of living.
I look at him.
His birthday. Eleven.
Never twelve.
What can I say?
Perhaps what I know.
There is only today.
Each day is a repetition.
We wake, we watch,
we breathe, we sleep.
Until there is no more.
Today, look about.
Does the sun shine?
Does the rain fall?
Do the flowers bloom?
Do the birds sing?
How? How hot,
how cold, how long,
how high, how low,
how sweet, how harsh?
Every day is a life.
We can choose to see,
Or to ignore.
An endless journey of dull,
or, a string of bliss.
Some lives are lived in moments,
some in stretches.
Yours, my son,
will be lived in a glimpse.
Look deep,
linger.
Let me engrave you on my eyelids.
My eyes daren’t close,
lest I lose a moment.
I gulp greedily,
desperate to create a reservoir
for the drought to come.
But, you will always be here.
It is not what could be,
or what it is you will miss,
but, what we have.
I shall carry you.
Always.
The stream eddies,
his toes drift in the water.
Circles again.
Drip, drip, drop.
His birthday. Twenty-one.
No, eleven?
Should I stop counting?
He is ageless.
My toes dip into the water,
muscle memory.
I count the circles,
Drop, drop, drip.
Perfect, concentric, complete.
A capture of beauty and time,
carrying me backwards, forwards,
quenching my thirst.
