Alone Together - Nov 24 2024

 

Alone Together

Nov 24 2024

Sundays were for walking.

On the day of rest

an agnostic’s version of church.

Not as easily

as you both once did,

what with her bad hip

your gimpy knees.

But still.

The promenade

that snakes beside the river.

Or the unmarked trail

through the nearby woods

that gets trickier every year,

booby-trapped

with rocks and roots

and fallen trees.

Especially when it’s rained;

slippery rocks

and moss-slick bark

if you take a wrong step.

Or setting out from home.

But the long route

because the whole day is yours.

With the dog, of course,

who stops to sniff everything

tugging hard on the leash.

A walking meditation

along the usual streets

you know by heart;

free

to find an easy rhythm

and lose yourself in thought.

Or downtown.

Dodging bodies on the sidewalk.

Under awnings

where pigeons nest.

Past bodegas

that smell of cigarettes

and fruit left too long;

the sweet fermented scent

of the sad-looking bananas

that are somehow always there,

turning black

faster than they sell.

And through leafy neighbourhoods

down secluded lanes

you never knew existed,

where small brick houses

stand cheek-by-jowl

behind postage-stamp yards.

In big cities and bustling crowds

it’s easy to ghost through life,

feeling atomized,

disconnected,

out of sight.

Despite the inescapable crush,

the intractable noise

that follows you home

and into your sleep.

But walking hand-in-hand

alone together

amidst the crowd

you’re never lonely,

never go unseen.

Today, it’s the park.

Through long grass

under stately trees

on softly yielding ground,

having left behind

the family picnics

flying frisbees

barking dogs.

Just birdsong

and the hum of distant traffic

you hardly notice anymore.

But still, no need to talk.

Not because you might say something wrong.

And not because after so many years

it’s all been said.

But because you’re so at ease with each other

that silence isn’t threatening

and presence is enough.

A sudden wind rustles the leaves.

A murder of crows

cawing in the canopy

warns of your approach.

It’s a sweet-sounding poem, but with a few subversive land mines that foreshadow the final stanza. After all, one might envy an old married couple holding hands, delightful outings, a walking meditation, the hidden gem of a residential neighbourhood, and the lovely glade in a pastoral park. The companionable silence.

But sprinkled in are words like heretic, snakes, booby-trapped. The intimations of both aging and disability in bad hip and gimpy knees. The shitting pigeons, dodged bodies, rotting fruit. The oppressive noise and lonely people.

And finally an ominous wind and a murder of crows: all-black birds, and traditionally regarded as harbingers of death. (Although not for me. I greatly admire these highly intelligent and social animals.)

My vision here is of an older couple, soberly aware that there are only so many years left, but because of that valuing each other that much more. Content holding hands and being alone together in a big city where it’s easy to be alone, but lonely.