Lost Places

Dreaming of lost places
I awake yearning for one last walk through beige painted rooms
where once I roamed freely.
I ache to touch the walls,
to run my gnarled fingers over the wallpaper with green roses,
to trod the uncarpeted floors
and smell coffee as it perks—
its pungent aroma filling the farm kitchen on a Sunday morning.
I long for the home Grandpa built.
He died long before I was born.
I long for the land I lost.
I wonder if he blames me for losing it.
In the quiet that remains, I hear sounds of newborn calves.
I see lush pastures beckoning Mom as she runs down the hill, down to the river.
Deep within my soul, I see her carrying pails of water, heading for home.
The pain dwelling within me
fills my every pore,
floods my veins until I wonder
if there’s any room for my blood.
Pain cloaks me like a mantle,
haunts me like Munch’s “Scream.”
Pain is either one step ahead of me or one step behind.
No matter.
It finds me.
The visions of lost places fill
my waking, my sleeping.
As long as I feel the pain they bring,
I know I’m still alive,
not lying in the Riverside Cemetery in Sault Ste. Marie where
Grandpa is no more than a name on a headstone.