Читать книгу Other Seasons - Harold J. Recinos - Страница 16

I don’t understand a thing about yesterday

though it must be around somewhere the

eye simply cannot see. sometimes I wonder

if it will catch up to me with a strong rain, reach

out from a dim place in the middle of the night insisting

on talking about domestic affairs, or have me simply sit in

a chair to listen to bygone events like they were happening

fresh over again. I don’t understand a thing about the way

yesterday takes on light to appear with missing friends risen

again who slowly walk up a road broadening in my mind where

they meet me like it’s the first time. I don’t understand why

nearly everything swallowed by yesterday is nearly forgotten,

like the six transistor radio that fit in a pocket, the cheap

wine kids drank to ritually spew, the wide-eyed mornings

with rice soup eaten before long walks to the English only

school, the box full of books about other worlds that vanished

into air, and the small good things that helped our captive

time leak dreams. I quit counting yesterday, turned away from

its disappearing act, and vowed to walk like Tito’s blind uncle

tapping my way around the forward turning hands of the clock

toward what the future brings. who knows I may well understand

yesterday and all the faulty things it stores coming finally unmasked

for me.