My young self drives an old Volvo
up Fourth Avenue for the first time,
just below Yesler overpass
near where I work.
He has left his Colorado home forever,
bound for graduate school in Seattle.
I will hail him as I often do,
reach for words
of confidence
and fathering he has long
missed.
But not today.
Fuck it.
I am old and lonely.
This time, it is he who smiles first—
then drives on,
not looking back.
In August, 1964, I crossed mountains and deserts, finally descended into the dream-green of western Washington for the first time. For some reason, I clearly remember driving that segment of Fourth Avenue–perhaps in order to set yet another hook in time to facilitate a visit from my older self. This encounter now often happens.
What conversation would you have with your younger self? I’ve had many, but on this day I was startled by the conversation he had with me, all in just a smile.
Post a Comment