Abused By Illusions

Early on in life came a jeopardous decision, holding
copiously lived life aloft of conventional art. Early
cinema and tavern adventures with my father planted
ideas of life itself as the most hominal of living fresco.
Later I would translate my heart’s drawl onto austere parchment
and in language more palatable to feed an elegant audience.
I sat, this my final day, in a taxi somewhere in the city. My heart
you see was failing as a cab driver’s voice faded into that of
my fathers so many years ago. I was beckoned back to that
paradise from which I had been torn so many years ago on this
very day. A warm glow, “like the shining of a shell,” told
that I was finally arrived once more back to Highland Avenue.
My loving family, already lay on the quilt, just the way I
remembered from so many years ago. Their presence formed
loving arms enveloping me in the comfort I had for so long missed.
But alas in the real world I had known…”How far we all come. How
far we all come from ourselves…You can never go home again.”
Then I looked upon the corner of the porch and in the dimming
light saw my father’s postal hat. It seemed to say to me that indeed
I could now return to Knoxville: Summer, 1915


© C.I. Abramson, 2004

Post a Comment