March 6, 1982
The old adage seems to be true that March comes in like a
lion; hopefully it will go out like a lamb.
The wind is up, with winter still clinging to its edges as I
job up River Drive in Garfield. Above me, a vivid blue sky hosts scores of puffed-up
clouds that seem immune to the movement here on the ground, sunlight still pink
around the tips of trees, gulls and geese crying forlornly around me as if they
have lost their way, having come back too soon from the south, or having never
left, stranded in this chilly day.
The tall grass, still yellow from last fall, sways along the
sides of the river where the night releases its hold reluctantly, revealing slowly
the imprint of footsteps that have passed between the tree trunks – fishermen who
poke their bait through the cracks of ice, or the homeless from the camp on the
Dundee Island side searching for firewood they can burn to keep warm – crossing
the rail bridge near Monroe Street where the freight trains once crossed to
feed the ever-hungry appetite of the German chemical plant, rusted rails
showing along the street on this side, pointing the way to an industry long
gone or on the verge of extinction, me striding in the footsteps of my ancestors
as if a ghost, haunting this space each morning as I make my way up from
Passaic, pausing at the riverside near the silver-sided Service Diner for coffee
before retracing my steps back to the comfort of my cold water flat, embracing
March as the arrival of a new season that won’t become evident yet for weeks,
windy March stirring up in my blood the ache for warmth, stirring me the way it
does the reeds, as if we are all somehow connected, each waiting for the lamb
to arrive once the roar of the lion ceases.
No comments:
Post a Comment