From My Past To Your Future
by Melissa Reynolds Coulter

With only one eye open,
I look at you;
I look around.
Illusions.
Delusions.
Slightly blurred pictures,
Like a telescope slightly out of focus.
So hard to choose
Which way to go at this split in the road.
I can see down each;
They look the same.
Rough road, dust clouds, pebbles flying,
When the sun is naming noon.
Little droplets,
Bathing my neck in perspiration.
Wet is not always clean.
The heat rises in my nostrils,
Yes,
I can smell it,
Like the warm aromas that waft from the kitchen,
Only this desert oven is baking dirt, not cake.
Iím sweating internally,
The moisture gathers in,
But not in my mouth.
I take a drink from my little canteen;
The water is tepid, warm.
Blisters develop
As my shoes are worn thin.
We have surely walked too long,
Walking to nowhere.
So we wake
In a cheap motel room
Somewhere in the Northeast.
The steady vibrational buzz of the air conditioner
Is heard only subconsciously.
The bedspreads donít match,
And the bowl-of-fruit paint is crooked.
The same fly keeps landing
On the same spot on my hand.
Finally,
I kill it.
Just reach out and crush its little life.
I donít like this.
I am tired, I suppose,
But then Iím always tired.
So I sleep.
Itís a long way home,
One tends to think,
From the other side of the fields.
I can see the big country farmhouse,
So I run toward it.
Large tobacco leaves brush against my sides
As I go.
It seems Iím getting no closer.
The bitter smell of pesticides
Promotes a grand headache.
I hope to lose it
By ignoring it.
Itís been hours,
And Iím finally there.
Iím home, Iíve arrived.
But itís empty,
No oneís home.
Theyíve all gone away,
Moved on.
Like I should be doing.
The roads of my childhood are eroded away,
Memories gone,
The pictures of my scrapbook have faded.
I smile with the new realization that
No where I go will restore them,
Itís time to go to new places,
With new people,
Create new memories,
For my childrenís scrapbooks.


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