Thursday, August 08, 2013


8 August 2013

I drove down to Pensacola,
thinking all along I'd rather he was driving
beside me, if only I could not be alone.
The past can be a fickle thing--one moment
benign, the next a falcon ready to strike,
ready to take, ready to rise from the mind
with this or that memory I might prefer
not to drag from the depths.

I came away glad for the dredging
of the past. No corpses, only
bittersweetness like coffee made just right;
a song that makes me laugh and weep;
the sound of Reveille waking me
from a dead sleep.

I drove home from Pensacola
preserving a pink paper crane on the seat
beside me. She graces now the doorway
of a great gift of life that precludes
neither past nor present,
nor all the chaos in between.

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George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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