ROADS By Robert Durborow
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Table of Contents Mimesis 2 The Box 4 Singularity Sunrise, Sunset
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Grandma’s Magic Soup
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Transmission 11 Did You Know? 12 Pyrotechnics 14 Places in the Mind Two Suits When Bullet Hits Bone
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The Face of Evil Second Son 20 What it takes
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MIMESIS
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The camera’s eye sees more than I, a dream long past, in the hourglass, a dusty postcard in living hand, drawn from a drawer filled up with sand, an open wound confined in space, scattered with thoughts so out of place, snapshots of reckless, heady days, caught in the camera’s watchful gaze, recorded history, faded here, mimetic constructs no longer clear, spark memories of happy times, a sandy beach in warmer climes, transport to this weathered bin, no clamor heard of pictured din, silent faces laughing there, long stilled by time, bereft of care, but turn the feeble photograph, and see the power of echo’s laugh, scrawled in faded ballpoint ink, nine words to make one stop and think, to bring the past from far to near, “Having a great time, wish you were here.”
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I open a box of my favorite things, finding the familiar with the strange. Blue Bear, my old friend, threadbare and worn, but still there, waiting, lopsided smile of black yarn, pleased to see me after all these years, as if only moments had passed.
The
Box
My first kiss gave me that necklace, amber and butterfly wings, tarnished with age, but bright with the luster of fond memories, a meeting of the lips, never be equaled, never forgotten. A sudden enchanted whiff of Cody Wild Musk draws my attention to a blue stick pen, the one The Artist sent all those years ago, still impregnated with her perfume, essence preserved, haunting the senses, hinting at what was, what is where she is, though I am not. It still writes. A large button that thinks I should recognize it, disappointed I do not. Does a keepsake remain so when the memory is forgotten? Is the heart constant that has moved on, outdistancing passionate moments, gone stale in the attic where discarded feeling go to die?
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A clay frog, eyes peering from artificial water of the same fired silicate, glazed in time and eggshell white. The words, “Love, Your Wife” etched in the pond ignite the memory of an imagined union I wish were real. I saw her, years after the gift with a small blond haired boy that could have been mine. Other items press to the fore, but I close the box, unable to face the shoelace she broke on that hike when we met the rattlesnake, the ribbon she took from her auburn hair the day I left to become a man in war torn country that was not my own, the golden band she left on the finger that could not bear it’s touch, when she passed beyond the veil, beyond the reach of men or me.
Sunrise, Sunset
1. Dawn of that day was unremarkable, but for the piercing cry of the last child, echoed by his bone weary mother. Their voices mingled, mother and babe, ghosting through streets empty of listening ears, whispering toward the rising Sun, who took them in his warm embrace, and soothed their fear and pain, until both feeble cries were content to fade. 2. Morning strides with confidence to greet the Middle of Day. Noon awaits the arrival of the no-longer-child, watching Morning guide him through his preparation for the real education of life; experience and pain. His father passes at 6am, two brothers at 10 and 11 as he nears Midday. Fear exerts his draining pull around 9, only to be thwarted by the courage of a math book across the nose of an assailant, who howls to his own noon as Fear claims a different victim. The journey of the shadow of day from beginning flat to tall and straight uses no more than six short hours, but the condition of the more-than-boy upon arrival validates the efforts of Morning to bring him thus far. Morning passes her charge to Noon and dies in peace. 3. Critical hours pass to Afternoon, as the journey proceeds in the direction of Twilight. Minutes flash past at
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the breakneck speed of growth and maturity. The now-man navigates the tides of war, the perils of wife and job, the jungle of children, all the while keeping the raft of family afloat, though it tilts and whirls through the currents of life, at times threatening to founder or break apart. Afternoon helps his charge keep it together, even thrive, through judicious doses of courage, risk, and determination. The man guides his children toward their own noons, knowing he can but show the way and teach them to stay the course. Other forces vie and strive to pull away the man and the attention of his brood. Stand or fail, he does his best to teach what he has learned, to live the life he should, to be more than what he is, that they may never fault his example. He succeeds. 4. Twilight welcomes the elder-man. The cool caress of his wife, Evening, envelopes the Waning Light and his charge. As Twilight falls, the elder bids farewell to his own evening who slips the bonds that hold her to life and floats peacefully toward her waiting night to await the arrival of the elder that gave everything to ensure her happiness, while she wore her mortal coil. She glances back a final time, pressing slender fingers to ruby lips.
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The kiss she offers, guided by her delicate hand as it parts her pursed mouth, carries the love of forty years together, with the promise of eternities more to follow, from the moment they meet in night’s embrace to start another day. Children have grown and now approach twilights of their own. One has fallen into darkness deep, with little hope of return, his raft shattered by the lust and greed of his own base desires. Another wears an honest face, that belies the untruth beneath, which robs from the poor and gives to the poorly recommended, unraveling the ties of his raft that will soon succumb to the rocks and rapids of the treacherous flow, or spin endlessly in the eddies. A third puts on a pretty face and marches to the beat of the band he no longer hears or comprehends, content to suffer on and fool himself that this, is how it’s meant to be, despite the example of the elder. The last fulfills his father’s dream and sails the tumbling current of oceans far from safer shores daring to dance the tides. In him the elder’s long, hard day lives on in word and deed, honoring the babe, the boy, the man that came before, guided by the children of Day toward the ever present Night to come. 5. Night falls. Darkness reigns. But in the darkness dwells the old-man, carrying with him the light he forged through the endless day, eighty years in the making. Fear holds no sway, sorrow cannot touch him. The end of this journey leaves him content to start the next, as he reaches toward the hand that let fly the kiss that sustained him through Twilight’s hours and brought him safely to his Night.
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Grandmas’s Magic Soup Pop says the soup is magic. Grandma just smiles, with a thick German accent. She moves to the white washboard cupboard and leans, bones creaking with age and love, retrieving a large stockpot and placing it carefully, on the front burner of the ancient gas stove, all white and black enamel. A quarter cup of real butter plops into the depths of her cauldron, followed by a large yellow onion, peeled and cubed by weathered, practiced hands. Blue flame that matches the tint of her hair erupts in a puff of sound from beneath the pot, as aged as she, though free of wrinkles and laugh lines. Six potatoes, scrubbed and diced, join the brew, with thinly sliced carrots, water, and the near naked carcass of the chicken that gave its life to feed us all the night before. “Waste not, want not,” intones my favorite witch, as if she’d penned the words herself. “A little spice is all you need,” she explains as she sprinkles black pepper, thyme, and dried parsley into the aromatic steam rising like dreams from the vat of making. Three cups of milk, drained from the cow lowing in the backyard, and a little flour complete the recipe, handed down through ages past, from German dame to German lass, a history of kindred feast, to make kings slaver with longing to satiate royal appetites. “But what makes it magic?” I ask in the innocence of youth.
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“Wait,” she says, “just wait. ‘The proof is in the pudding.” Though we’re making soup, I know what she means, she’s said it a thousand times. Wisdom spouts from grandma’s mouth like water from a fountain, refreshing all who hear the words, spoken as if from a book of knowledge, memorized to teach the next generation, what should never be forgotten. Minutes pass, spent in pleasant conversation, as the ingredients stew into soup. A happy grandson worships his grandmother at the altar of her kitchen table, scratched an faded, bowls set in anticipation of the magic soup. The hooked ladle dips into the finished amalgamation, depositing savory contents into my bowl, I lower my spoon and slurp up the hot broth, tasting generations, feeling the stock of warmth that runs down my throat to rest in the belly of the newest generation. My father walks through the front door, dirty clothes evincing the morning’s labors. He stops, inhaling the deep the scent of ancestry, that smells of potato, onion, and thyme. A great sigh explodes from his lips as he reaches for a bowl and spoon… …and suddenly I understand
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Transmission
Power lies dormant, headers mottled from the heat of ten thousand miles driven on layers of asphalt, black ribbons stretching from town to town over rolling hills that promise something new over every rise, adventure in every valley. The open maw of the engine compartment reveals the digestive tract of the machine for which these roads are meant, hungry for the next trip, eager to chew up that road. Familiar hints of motor oil, gasoline, and radiator fluid permeate the confined space beneath the watchful hood under which a young man labors to resolve some minor glitch that challenges the performance of the little engine that could, often has, and will again for many years. A sober look of serious intent adorns the clean shaven face and conservative haircut of the man who will see many more years, many more cars and trucks, but none as loved as this, the first of many mechanical lovers, worshipped at the altar of the Grease Pit he names his two car garage, that temple of cement and wood and steel, in which he prays to the gods of Craftsman, Benchmade, Snap-on, and more. The man I see in the black and white window before me is not my father, but he recalls me to the fender I on which I used to sit, legs dangling next to the alternator, to watch in fascination as Pop explained the magic of the internal combustion engine. The man in the picture is unknown to me, but he wears the same intense expression my father still dons when he opens the hood of a car, wrench in hand, the very face my own sons see in the eyes of their sire... ...sitting on the fender of a faded old truck... ...legs dangling next to the alternator...
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DID YOU
KNOW
The hood stands open, fiber insulation frayed and worn clinging desperately to the underside. Dirt and grime add character to the six cylinders arranged in the classic V of power that provide horses for this steel chariot that needs none.
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Did you know, as the sun rose on that April day, far from your Pennsylvania home, climbing into the co-pilot’s seat of the Cloud Hopper, preparing to give all for your country, for freedom, for the family you would never see again? What were your thoughts, as the sky dropped down to meet your winged fortress of metal, guns, and destruction? Did you think of family, friends, the wife you would never have? Were you focused on the mission, the lives you might end today, leaving other families fatherless, brotherless, sonless? Were you afraid? How did you prepare, On April 8th, 1944 to do what you knew had to be done, for duty, honor, country, to preserve your family and the world from a madman, bent on purging the earth of impurities, without which it could not exist? What did you hear, in the acrid sky over Brunswick? Did the explosions of your enemy’s guns rock your fragile perch, crack the glass through which you viewed
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the coming doom, the rocket’s red glare? Did you see Death, cloaked in black, tattered clouds, sweeping toward you in the deafening silence, whetting his scythe on the bursts of flack? Did you die well, and quickly, with no anguished screams, just a sudden end as your B-17 bloomed, in flame and fragment, consigning your lifeless body to the ground far below, and your essence to its final reward? Did you wrestle with the wreckage of torn wings, the inferno of faltering engines, to the last second, in effort to save your valiant crew? Did you know, that years after your fiery death, your nephew would ask the same questions of himself,as he sweated in a different uniform, a thousand miles to the south and east of your final resting place, as he hesitated to let loose the fury he controlled, wondering if he had the right, or the responsibility? The past has past, the future stretches forth in uncertainty, and your nephew sometimes wonders if the end of his uncle wasn’t the better way to go.
Pyrotechnics
Fire. A chemical reaction involving oxygen and some fuel, producing heat, light, smoke.
This, then, is the extent, all that is all that can ever be of noble furen, the exciter, the arouser a cold, hard definition, neither here, nor there, forever in between…
Fire. Considered by the Greeks to be the most powerful of elements, companion to Earth, Air, and Water.
The greatest of all, fallen from grace, a child, banished to a lonely corner, humiliated, diminished. Sea and Land cast their derision upon the mighty wind, who carries their taunts, mingled with her own, to exiled fire, expelling them with such force he dies in agony and shame…
Fire. To talk incessantly without pause for breath to continue without slackening pace to ask a series of questions to write quickly and send hurriedly.
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What is to say carries weight, as if the whole of all rested upon brilliant shoulders, yearning, desiring, demanding release from bonds of confusion, doubt, and uncertainty, to enlighten, banish fear, educate the child and warm the intellect, to shine from atop the tower, never cower beneath a shroud‌ Fire. Discharge. May be applied to the expulsion of a projectile from a weapon, or dismissal of an employee.
in unseen halls of thought and idea, internal flame, as real as the one that warms my frigid hands, rising from ground as frozen as my thoughts, slowly warming the id of the idiot, lightening darkened recesses that contain untold treasure with its ethereal glare, showing the seeker what could never be seen, without the illumination, the power, the majesty, of fire...
Sent as on a mission, strife to end strife, violent nature revealed in virile futility, for everyone shoots back, the cycle repeated from eon to age, rendering what is what was, now in search of another target, a cause, a battle of survival in a world, that bites and tears, oblivious to the varied pulses, that give it reason to be‌ Fire. Cause to take action, work faster, act quickly, create enthusiasm.
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Bullet
When the
Hits
Bone
the
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Target acquired, finger caresses trigger, spanning the abyss between is and is no more. Tensor flexed, release the fury of fire and plumbum, clad in a steel tuxedo, all dressed up with places to go, people to kill. At three times the speed of sound, the objective resigns well before the announcement of his retirement, a nearby wall, the only witness, blushes scarlet in the wake of passing. Mortal coil leaps off, too startled to shuffle. The raptor vacates his useless nest, fading into the obscurity of distant trees, carrying a new face to haunt his dreams, unable to rusticate fault, damned to view another end, in a long list of curtain calls, orchestrated by the index that lets fly the bullet that hits the bone.
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Second Son â€œâ€Śfor which these roads are meant.â€? Eighty years the soldier wanders, to shed light, meaning, to what has been, that which has been done, and can no longer be prevented. Memory screams down the corridors of time, words of warning, ignored by men that would have lived, had they but heeded, hesitated, considered counsel. Man of peace bows his weary head, grey from counted years of pain and trial, the torch must soon be passed to the second son, of the last child, grown aged in duty, honor, family. Questions plague matters as grey as hair: Have I done enough? Have I been enough? Have I raised the better man? Worry is a needless foe, born of confidence in doubt, his part has been more than the less he thinks of it. The second of four sees the worth of the thirteenth child, the father, the shaper of dreams, the example of the value of duty, honor, family.
arrow straight, twisted serpents, challenges to make or break, build up or destroy, but the no-more boy stands strong, prepared by the father who had none, to navigate obstacles unknown with the practiced hand of wisdom gained by experience. The greatest of the great, in the admiring eyes of the second son, who esteems him more than himself, looms mighty in humble meekness, by virtue of lessons, hard learned, paths trod with bloody feet, sacrifices that proved worth beyond words. The second praises the thirteenth, for blazing the arduous trail that leads to recognition of duty, satisfaction in honor, the endless wonder of family.
Roads stretch out before the second son, as varied as those of the father, the soldier, the last of thirteen, who knew no father, only worry for his sons. The highways, paths, and trails snake out, endless options of rough and smooth,
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