Friday, November 19, 2010
The One Where I Wish I Was In Illinois Today.
There are just some people who leave you much too early.
Gone before you could deliver a decent goodbye.
People who you think about when you read certain lines of Thoreau.
When you find broken railroad ties.
And hear an old man whistling.
Flannel sleeves rolled up haphazardly.
Crumbs on the collar.
When shopping cart wheels wobble.
When you can't quite remember someone's name.
Or when you follow that curve of an "a" in a handwritten letter.
People you think of when you have the words to say.
But can't get them out.
When you feel inclined to stick your head out the car window.
And let it all out.
When you run in the rain.
Or slip up and go all red in the cheeks.
People you think of when the wind shakes the trees.
And you worry that the roots will eventually give.
People you think of at the crack of a pecan shell in your hand.
When a dog's tongue just hangs so.
And you hear an old friend's laugh.
And turn to look.
Even though you know.
And in these moments.
You think of them.
And you wonder why.
Wish that you could find a notebook.
Filled with their words, explaining, Why I'm Not Where You Are.
But all you can do is remember them in these ways.
These ways of saying goodbye.