Yesterday's Tomorrows
by R.E. Slater
I awoke the morning having dreamed a mostfantastical dream of dead relatives and strangers,of failing houses built anew long creek bottoms,near hillsides flowing in waters tumbling downstony cascades ’neath shaded arbors spillingsunlit warmth. In the distance, soon borne near,old farmhouses had become magical estates toomajestic their beholdings. Made of wood androck, smoothed granite and clever masonry, allturned grander by dint of hand’s sturdy vision.Each the more magical as I listened dead lovedones gabbling on as they had our back porchesor large reunion picnics. Men chattering away asold women, and the old women more talky thanbefore. All nonsense and rhythm, laughter andgoodwill. It was grand to hear, and soothing uponthe heart, to think on.Women dressed in thin gingham affairs, men intheir white shirts and suspenders; and all wearingblack or brown laced shoes fitting much too tightly.Beyond lay splendorous bluing pools and spas,nooky alcoves and hidden hide-aways, each withtheir own attractions. The expanse of it, the vision,all there, all become, where once there was none.Imagination could not begin to comprehend therocky meandering step walls on which to climb,or graven scripted facings, or even the plantedgreenery there-and-about. And as I stepped withinthen down, everywhere about me lay a sprawlingsolarium as high as it was wide, under which theairy evening stars dwelt in timbrelled lights spillingover a gathered storyteller's head, circling ’roundthe many listening ears and wizened heads noddingbroad smiles to the teller’s gesticulating, muchanimated, stories of olden days and friends. Besideme in their corridors buried within narrow cozyenclaves lay nearby adobe-like bistros built likehoneycombs winding about-and-around each theother, filled with chatty supplicants beheld in gayfestivities of every sort. And as I wandered lostwithin, I wondered to myself the visionaries, thearchitects, the designers, and builders all, butfeeling the joke of having been blinded the day'sunseeing-beyond I withheld any comment tomyself whence dumbstruck its sublime mystery.
It was then I awoke quite disorientated not surewhere I was. Outside my ward’s flowing chiffondrapery a foggy grey mist wafted off the brinysea lying still off the bow beyond my bedroom’schambers. A great grey, sleeping ocean, acrosswhich I was drawn to as I lay half-awake listingthe bizarre stories draining through my foggyhead seeing for the last time rare sights seldomgranted. There again rose my grandma's sparsefarmhouse, the one she grew up within, with itsoccupants and rooms filled with gaiety and light.My last living relative, dad’s cousin, excitedlytalking as he never had before when ensconcedin his father's house, though I had spent many akitchen hour conversing with the old man and hisaged wife. The lively cobwebs were now lifting,sweeping my fuzzy head clear beguiling thoughtswhence I saw again dear dad like he was ’ere thenight before we last met. Each going, going, gone.All strange. All strange. All strange. I thought tomyself. Nothing making sense except that I wentto bed too late, too tired to hear beyond the opencurtains of my bedroom's windows to be called towander with old memories and new on a somberwinter’s evening. Each a spinning scene makingme dizzy how earthly glory might be. Could be.The camaraderie, the fellowship, of riding alongrushing creek sides on mounted sorrels weary thedusty trails from a long day's saddle. What couldbe, what can be, only imagination could tell me.And yet, I felt the poorer when waking as bothpast and future fled as one into the foggy spindriftslying over the oceans of my mind and heart. AndI, left alone, last thoughts and feelings from landsportending much more if I had but listened andmended during the days of my waking to followthe siren calls of yesterday’s tomorrows.R.E. SlaterFebruary 25, 2021Rev. March 5, 2021@copyright R.E. Slater Publicationsall rights reserved