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Heading South

Trees and stone walls slide by while I drive from Lincoln to Lexington before turning south. Minute Men crouched here, Thoreau ruminated, generations of maples wept their leaves each autumn. They'd still be here long after I returned to Manhattan.

I was leaving someone who cursed me on my way out the door with my bag. I had ventured north in the melting snow with hope and more than a little discomposure, thinking this time would be different. The children were grown and gone to conquer the world. I thought she and I were beyond conquest and could enjoy sifting memories, even creating some new mementos before the end comes. She with her cancer would be remembered as a good mother and I'd be recalled as the guy who wrote a book of poetry.

Those Roberts, Frost and Lowell, will remind me of the things I left behind.

Story by:

Walt Giersbach

20 November 2017