The distance, their time and place seem far away,
forever aloof, an afternoon’s drive – a conscious
decision, a trip I imagine more than take, but there
are times I’m drawn to it, to them, to who they were
and to what they have become.
My father’s hometown surrounds them now, holds
them there in all their remoteness – our family plot,
our name in bold chiseled out letters, as if it served
as a summary, an ironic pronouncement about our
allotment of ambition and grace.
There’s my father and brother, so long dead, I can’t
picture them anymore, or easily recall anything they
did worth mentioning – those little things we’d like
to remember about the dead, what they said or did,
those endearing things.
And my mother is there, a more recent death, more
dear for the extra years she spent, but just as far now,
another brick in the wall that seals us away from them
and what they were and what they became –
this dull blankness – eternal silence.
Are they off some place together? I picture them
as a family scene – father, mother, and son posing,
finally at peace with each other. Is there a house?
Schools for each of them? Do they dine together
and talk about their day?
Their distance, their time and place seem far away,
forever aloof, an afternoon’s drive – a conscious
decision to make the trip, a trip part of the way to
the undiscovered country – no travelers ever return
who go the full distance, like they have.
-- J. K. Durick
