Saturday, June 6, 2020

My Role on the Road to Golgotha

Joe Roberts' oxen walking up and down West Street in a light rain, the two of us pacing behind, talking about the hilltowns in the 70s, and how so much of what we loved got lost, shunted aside, forgotten, et cetera. Often, I think of rainbow trout hovering in swift currents in Bronson Brook, nothing to them but their hunger, and wish to God I understood what it was in me back then that wanted them dead so bad. Loons uttered their strange song over Upper Highland Lake, you waiting on the shore for me to finish my midnight swim, me floating on my back unsure how far away the stars were. We christen last year's fire pit with a jug of wine, no glasses, getting tipsy enough to clumsily fuck, folded in a blanket, only later wondering who might've been watching from afar. How you come with your eyes closed, chin lifted, always transported, and how grateful I am, watching. How quiet they were, their heavy feet thudding in a slow ponderous rhythm lasting a thousand afternoons. Sometimes I feel like a man who was asked to carry a lot of coffins around, or am I the reincarnation of Simon from Cyrene, still bitter and confused about my role on the road to Golgotha? What's done is done, is one way to think about it, but at a late juncture one realizes there are others. I didn't sleep much in those days, got started drinking way too early, and developed a sad capacity for withstanding physical pain. One makes do. Doesn't one make do. One does until one doesn't, meaning the other comes along and says, "I know another way - come," and you do.

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