The Lasts
They started slowly and invisibly at first:
the last cutting of the hedge or mowing of the lawn;
the last time winding the pondweed on a stick whilst
water skaters skit like kittens from the growing candyfloss of green.
Then time sublimating from an airy future to a solid present
made the lasts more self-aware.
The last time I cycled to this home from this station.
The last day the bookshelf had books.
The last calling in on my neighbour
or walking my boy back from his school.
Then, they fell fast like leaves from an autumn tree
and it hit me packing the boxes in the small hours of the night
when my eyes misted not with weariness
but with brokeness.
Leaving bits of myself behind,
things I had made,
trees I had planted and pruned
and loved into shapeliness,
memories I had treasured
were dissolving into history.
It is a foretaste of dying.
But it is also the raw and naked vulnerability
of the unknown leap to an uncertain future
that will never be the same.
And that (I believe)
is life.
(c) A McN
15 years in the same house. Four of our offspring passed from childhood to adulthood and the late gift of number 5 passed from babyhood to childhood. It was very hard to leave and yet the yearnings for our roots were well past their sell-by date. Change is risky but the atrophy of dreams is a bigger risk by far.
the last cutting of the hedge or mowing of the lawn;
the last time winding the pondweed on a stick whilst
water skaters skit like kittens from the growing candyfloss of green.
Then time sublimating from an airy future to a solid present
made the lasts more self-aware.
The last time I cycled to this home from this station.
The last day the bookshelf had books.
The last calling in on my neighbour
or walking my boy back from his school.
Then, they fell fast like leaves from an autumn tree
and it hit me packing the boxes in the small hours of the night
when my eyes misted not with weariness
but with brokeness.
Leaving bits of myself behind,
things I had made,
trees I had planted and pruned
and loved into shapeliness,
memories I had treasured
were dissolving into history.
It is a foretaste of dying.
But it is also the raw and naked vulnerability
of the unknown leap to an uncertain future
that will never be the same.
And that (I believe)
is life.
(c) A McN
15 years in the same house. Four of our offspring passed from childhood to adulthood and the late gift of number 5 passed from babyhood to childhood. It was very hard to leave and yet the yearnings for our roots were well past their sell-by date. Change is risky but the atrophy of dreams is a bigger risk by far.
posted by alistair mcnaught at 1:01 AM
1 Comments:
Beautiful and moving.
I identified with lots of your 'lasts'as I went through similar feelings 5 years ago when we made a move. It is a natural response to a letting go - to a passage from one thing to another - to life.
Thank you so much for sharing your writing.
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