R.E. Slater - Yesterday's Tomorrows

Yesterday's Tomorrows

by R.E. Slater

I awoke the morning having dreamed a most

fantastical dream of dead relatives and strangers,

of failing houses built anew long creek bottoms,

near hillsides flowing in waters tumbling down

stony cascades ’neath shaded arbors spilling

sunlit warmth. In the distance, soon borne near,

old farmhouses had become magical estates too

majestic their beholdings. Made of wood and

rock, smoothed granite and clever masonry, all

turned grander by dint of hand’s sturdy vision.

Each the more magical as I listened dead loved

ones gabbling on as they had our back porches

or large reunion picnics. Men chattering away as

old women, and the old women more talky than

before. All nonsense and rhythm, laughter and

goodwill. It was grand to hear, and soothing upon

the heart, to think on.

Women dressed in thin gingham affairs, men in

their white shirts and suspenders; and all wearing

black or brown laced shoes fitting much too tightly.

Beyond lay splendorous bluing pools and spas, 

nooky alcoves and hidden hide-aways, each with

their own attractions. The expanse of it, the vision,

all there, all become, where once there was none.

Imagination could not begin to comprehend the

rocky meandering step walls on which to climb,

or graven scripted facings, or even the planted

greenery there-and-about. And as I stepped within

then down, everywhere about me lay a sprawling

solarium as high as it was wide, under which the

airy evening stars dwelt in timbrelled lights spilling

over a gathered storyteller's head, circling ’round

the many listening ears and wizened heads nodding

broad smiles to the teller’s gesticulating, much

animated, stories of olden days and friends. Beside

me in their corridors buried within narrow cozy

enclaves lay nearby adobe-like bistros built like

honeycombs winding about-and-around each the

other, filled with chatty supplicants beheld in gay

festivities of every sort. And as I wandered lost

within, I wondered to myself the visionaries, the

architects, the designers, and builders all, but

feeling the joke of having been blinded the day's

unseeing-beyond I withheld any comment to

myself whence dumbstruck its sublime mystery.

 

 

It was then I awoke quite disorientated not sure

where I was. Outside my ward’s flowing chiffon

drapery a foggy grey mist wafted off the briny

sea lying still off the bow beyond my bedroom’s

chambers. A great grey, sleeping ocean, across

which I was drawn to as I lay half-awake listing

the bizarre stories draining through my foggy

head seeing for the last time rare sights seldom

granted. There again rose my grandma's sparse

farmhouse, the one she grew up within, with its

occupants and rooms filled with gaiety and light.

My last living relative, dad’s cousin, excitedly 

talking as he never had before when ensconced

in his father's house, though I had spent many a

kitchen hour conversing with the old man and his

aged wife. The lively cobwebs were now lifting,

sweeping my fuzzy head clear beguiling thoughts

whence I saw again dear dad like he was ’ere the

night before we last met. Each going, going, gone.

All strange. All strange. All strange. I thought to 

myself. Nothing making sense except that I went

to bed too late, too tired to hear beyond the open

curtains of my bedroom's windows to be called to

wander with old memories and new on a somber

winter’s evening. Each a spinning scene making

me dizzy how earthly glory might be. Could be.

The camaraderie, the fellowship, of riding along

rushing creek sides on mounted sorrels weary the

dusty trails from a long day's saddle. What could

be, what can be, only imagination could tell me.

And yet, I felt the poorer when waking as both

past and future fled as one into the foggy spindrifts

lying over the oceans of my mind and heart. And

I, left alone, last thoughts and feelings from lands

portending much more if I had but listened and

mended during the days of my waking to follow

the siren calls of yesterday’s tomorrows.

R.E. Slater

February 25, 2021

Rev. March 5, 2021

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications

all rights reserved