Here on this sun-dappled summer highway, I tally for myself the dreams I’ve left behind. The ones outmoded by age and circumstance. The ones that were always more fantasy than prospect:
A sturdy bungalow;
An RV – an abominable travel cliché, Dave assured me;
A chaise lounge on which to retire and read;
The sweeping, nipped-in-waisted peignoir to go with;
A homestead cabin;
A glass house;
The books I wrote in my mind as we drove to the North Fork, never transposed from mind to memoir;
A slow dance with Ben;
A two-step with Dave;
Every Montana graveled track heading up into a gulch;
One more night with Dave on the deck, the universe alight with stars and the river’s song.
And the luminous life I’ve gotten to live:
New York and Faust;
Gettysburg – the battlefield at dusk and the cemetery at dawn;
Trooping the Color;
The sweet peace of cocktail hour with Bob;
Sixty miles of Glacier peaks going to sleep in lavender light;
Singing the Messiah;
The heady shiver of out-thinking and out-speaking a debate foe, a Forest Supervisor, a Park Service superintendent and a mining stooge;
Ella – warm against my shoulder as we read;
Washed-in-the-blood hymns belted out on piano and trumpet;
The lights of a Brewers’ game backstopped by Mount Helena;
Standing on this earth where Chief Plenty Coups, Lincoln, a dying Union soldier, a Renaissance surgeon, and a Greek philosopher stood;
Russian olive trees;
The Grand Canyon;
Dave at the raft’s oars;
Holding hands with those I cherished as they left this earth;
Tom Govan’s laconic and priceless praise;
Honor songs to the heartbeat of drumming;
A cat’s soft paw;
A tender rabbit nose at midnight. ©
