Home by Another Route

First Place, adults' poetry

Mary Ann Wamhoff |

12/18/2008 - 12/19/08

We were just doing our job:
stargazing.
In those days and in our neighborhoods
that was a respectable business.
We were even revered by some
and consulted by many.

It was natural,
though far from one another,
to keep in touch:
revered and respected,
we were still few.
We shared and supported,
commiserated, too.
So, when we first viewed it
and understood its import,
Of course we agreed
when to meet at which place.
It was a venture requiring much preparation
and scoffed at by many.
But, ours is a mobile profession —
the same sky covers all —
and the camaraderie was welcome.

In the right vicinity,
we couldn't see the final way:
the light was still there
but so were shadows,
increased by its brilliance.
We began to fear we'd be too late.
So we inquired of those who —
we thought —
should know
and, consulting their records,
they were helpful,
asking what seemed
such a little in return.

The last leg seemed dreamlike
except for the ever brighter light;
all else blurred.

Our gifts —
conceived of in transit,
presented hesitantly —
seemed out of place.
But she received them
with a sad, knowing, assured smile
that shuddered our security
and shattered our smugness.

"Now what?
We came all that way for this?
What, pray tell, does it mean?
Was it worth it?"

Though never sure of its meaning,
after the dream,
we knew its worth.
Such
a dream!

With conviction
We left the prescribed way,
the road we'd come by,
well traveled by many.
Uncertain
of which path we would take,
we knew the former one just wouldn't do;
utter discomfort assailed us
at the thought of that terrain.
We would find an alternate.

And when we returned —
with deep wrinkles,
beards,
gray hair,
and weathered bodies;
with keen questions,
lucid dreams,
foreign experiences,
and new perspectives —
our neighborhoods
had changed,
our shops
were razed,
our neighbors
were different,
our families
had relocated,
our wives —
ceasing to hope
for our returns —
had taken new husbands,
our children
had grown
and birthed their own.
Nobody,
Not a soul,
Recognized us.
We hardly knew ourselves.

Even the stars
Had moved.