Richard Grahn

The walking man studies the footprints he’s made in the freshly-fallen snow, footprints meandering back through time, back through time with his thoughts. There he finds a boy playing by a stream, happy as a boy can be. He walks over and says, “Hello.” The boy doesn’t hear. He wants to say “remember this” but all he can do is watch for a while as the child works his way along the bank and finally out of sight.

His thoughts lead back to a grassy field where a young man tosses hay bales onto a wagon. The man in the snow wants to shout “be careful” but again can only watch as the farm cart passes by. He knows the young man has no reason to listen to the wind. Turning up his collar, he shrugs away the cold.

Blowing snow is covering his tracks. He’s watching them fade away. He searches for what is left of her, her footprints in the snow. He wants to tell her “I’m sorry” but the footprints just aren’t there. The trail’s gone cold and he’s walking alone on his way back home in a blizzard.

recollections... layers of settling dust on the bookshelves begin to obscure the stories

Grass-stains on knees are the least of their worries. The ball is lost in the hay again. Earlier this spring, they mowed a large section of this hayfield into a baseball diamond and then adorned it with torn up bits of T-shirt carefully arranged to mark out the bases. The infield is cropped short but the outfield is truly out in the field. The “hay” is really just a tangle of clover, some sort of domestic grass and wild strawberries. The game itself is doomed from the beginning. All attempts to keep the ball in the infield wind up with the ball in the tall grass. It's just a matter of time before this comes down to picking berries rather than looking for the ball.

childhood... nothing ever measures up but something always fits

The wooden stairs are steep, only about ten of them but steep. At the foot is Grandma’s canning pantry complete with carefully sealed Mason jars filled with applesauce, jams, jellies, watermelon pickles, and other preserves. Mostly it’s fruit we picked. I like it when Grandma chooses me to fetch something from the shelves.

To the left is Grandpa’s workbench with an assortment of tools including a bench-grinder, a couple of rock tumblers and, my favorite, a handheld black light. We use it to view the fluorescent stones and minerals in his rock collection gathered on many trips across North America. Fluorite, calcite, and hyalite all dazzle in its subtle glow. Grandpa weaves stories of adventure in with his descriptions of the rocks.

Behind us is Grandma’s hand-cranked, wringer washing machine; so fancy. I enjoy wringing out the pants and shirts when the wash is finished. Lines hang from the ceiling near the furnace toward the back of the room. She tells me I’m an expert with clothespins.

These days I find myself spending more time in the basement. It’s quality time for me, springtime in my mind.

old songs playing on the radio... a pear blossom opens

I’ve taken the highway, that path that leads from here to there, from anywhere to everywhere it seems. Over mountains and valleys, across rivers and streams, I’ve hitched my way through cities and deserts, from ocean to ocean, back home and away again. I’ve stood by the road in the pouring rain, cars rolling by with somewhere to go. Each time I look in a rear-view mirror, mile markers passing by, my thoughts drift back to where I started, when time was on my side.

There is always somewhere to go, something on my mind, even if that something is nothing more than venturing into the unknown. I’ve walked away from pain and into the arms of love, each time the load a little bit larger, the wind a little bit stronger. It seems there is no end in sight; the magic mountains are just out of reach. So, I buy a map at a local gas station, open it up, and to my delight, find it crisscrossed with roads.

a car radio crackles... the soles of my shoes with a mind of their own

Outside the cabin, a smaller, child-size log cabin once sat next to the driveway. Over the years, a coven of spiders and wood ticks took it over, the forest slowly staking a claim, gravity wresting it back into the ground. We never played there. Who wants cobwebs in their hair, much less nightmares on the brain? There were bear claw-marks in the wood, for crying out loud. No telling how many creatures chewed on that shack, and the fallen pine needles on the roof left a musty Hansel and Gretel feel. Little children could get lost in there.

Finally, someone dismantled it, the children grew up, and the ghost stories surrounding it gradually subsided into memories of fear we’ve almost now forgotten.

one stone gathers moss— what looks like rain is just a cloudy day

On the therapist's couch, I wonder aloud what it would be like to bundle all the pain I’ve ever experienced together with any future pains, to feel them all at once and be done with it. I mean everything, from the hangnails, slivers, cuts, and bruises, to the pain of lost relationships and death. I think how overwhelming it would be, how completely unbearable. Still, if getting it all over in one great rush was possible, would it be worth it or would it kill me?

a river overflows its banks... silence

The eight-year-old boy can’t reach the first branch of the largest of a pair of Maples in the front yard so he settles for the lowest branch of the smaller tree. He easily pulls himself up into the first crotch and pauses there, planning his route to the top of his favorite aviary. He knows each branch like the back of his hand, every step, every handhold. He starts to climb, one limb at a time.

As the boy ascends, the branches get smaller and more flexible. He can feel himself now swaying gently in the wind. He can almost (but not quite) poke his head out of the leaves at the top of the tree before he’s forced to stop climbing. Here he tucks a leg into the fork between two branches and settles in.

First, he senses the breeze gently evaporating the sweat from his climb. Then he feels the sun poking through the few leaves hovering above his wandering eyes. Eventually, the sound of those rustling leaves bleeds into his awareness. All would be silent if it weren’t for the rhythm of the leaves and the chirping of an unseen bird. The boy is where he needs to be. A robin lights on the branch beside him. He wishes he could fly.

dancing with a cricket... moonrise