So many inner-voices show up to tackle the mundane and the life-changing; and they don’t always agree.
We are seniors Fourth-years No longer freshmen Experience Lives within us Promising a cocky confidence We assume the freshmen Will turn to us For wisdom And advice Instead, they reverberate With bustling expectation Of their own possibilities Their own awaited promises They nod vague respect in our direction But we are mostly a passing thought Our time dwindling Our term at this institution Nearing graduation’s end
Photo source: Walk the Goats
The woman boards the bus Her hair white, face creased Skin loose Yet her step firm. Steady Would you like my seat? I ask My hair dusted pepper-gray Is there a slight hesitancy A pause A flickered frown As she considers my offer? She glances down the aisle To the overflowing seats Negotiates with her inner voices She exhales slightly Turns back toward me Her deep brown eyes reflect decades of living Her lips hold a whisper of humor Some understanding Just beyond my grasp Then, with a calm surrender, she accepts Why yes, thank you
Photo source: Walk the Goats
Rivulets course Over dry, fading skin Ever-deepening furrows Revealing age as the days pass Two tiny mountain ranges Stand firm in goose-flight formation Crossed erratically by a thin, dark vein A distended mar across the surface A movement, and the shift Smooths lines here Scatters sand-patterns there In crinkles of joy and sorrow
“What’s your phone number?” she asks.
“5226,” they answer.
She experiences a moment of confusion.
Then she remembers: everyone in this village has the same 6-digit area code and prefix. It’s been like that for years. If you’re a local and you’re asked for your number, you give just four digits.
When you’re a local, you know that.
When you’re a tourist, you ask for the rest of the number.
She nods, and says nothing, feeling grateful for the quiet implication that, having once lived in this village, she is still being treated like a local.
Or, she thinks darkly, maybe she is being tested as a tourist.
It was a quiet way to reveal those connected to the area from those just passing through.
Despite having roots going back generations, she hadn’t lived here for decades. She visited once-a-year; saw old friends; attended social events. But, in many ways, she was, really, always just passing through. Always slightly on the edge.
Yet, she yearned to belong; to feel the place like one feels their own skin.
In that brief moment of asking for a phone number, and the silence that followed, she understood. These local, childhood roots would endure forever within her; they would co-exist with her life thousands of miles away. They couldn’t be separated nor could they exist apart. In that, she belonged. Both there. And here.
Photo source: 52663 on Pixabay
Walk the Goats 