We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
—T.S. Eliot, “Little Gidding”
Precious memories, unseen angels
Sent from somewhere to my soul
How they linger, ever near me,
As the sacred past unfolds
I turn down the soothing voice of “Gentleman Jim” Reeves. He looks at me from the CD case, a face thought of as handsome in his day, though Jim seems too mature and, maybe, just a bit innocent, even naive, for our jaded time.
I saw the black police SUV too late as we entered town. Now we sit on the roadside, just past the cemetery, the SUV’s lights flashing, the wind kicking up hard, rocking the car a bit on a blustery December morning. ...