A telephone earpiece told me come home now. Told me, in the place where you used to live the streets gleam, the buildings are soft with fresh paint, and your old apartment remains empty next to antique stores. Said your place in the sun is so warm now, can’t you feel it? Can’t you feel eternity in the wind, in the rivers, in the roads, can’t you feel art in the buildings, music in the café? Said don’t you remember how the fields mothered you, how you retreated to the safety of the hills, how everywhere there was a place to stop and lay your head from late night biking?
I say into a telephone mouthpiece, how could you ask me to give up, to look back, to hold onto a world that may exist only in dreams? How could you ask me to sit absently with Rose at breakfast remembering the past, giving one word answers as she talked about the television news: “NASA is a waste of money—trying to find life on other planets is a waste.” To interject, “I’d like to go to space, though—all the stars and darkness,” (thinking: I’d like to go back to the fields). To have her say, “You could go to Alaska for that.”