Meditations with the Moths

Suddenly I recognize those deep Graterford nights—

A boy writing at the kitchen table,

Dishwasher churning in the background,

Moths spreading themselves upon the window—

Staring at me from behind the veil of Greenville tonight—

A man writing at the dining table,

Dishwasher humming in the next room,

Moths fastening themselves to the screen door.

It must have been some clever trick of Time

That pulled me backward

While the clock said, “Watch my hands.”

Those nights my family sat around this table,

A steady conversation weaving

Days into years.

No one broke into that circle

By lighting up our pockets,

And no one left until dinner was done —

Only each other for

Interruptions.

The world was small; the future was only tomorrow.

And now was just

The moment.

 

These nights we sit around different tables.

(But I kept the one we scratched and dented.)

I eat my meals in silence,

Scrolling from interruption to

Interruption.

The world is far too large, the future a mountain of tomorrows.

And now is an avalanche

Of moments.

 

At Christmas we will sit around my sister’s table,

A steady conversation weaving

Then into now.

New faces have joined that circle,

New names fill up our pockets,

And I will not ask for time to be undone—

But I will fight off

Interruptions.

The world is just a house we move out of

Tomorrow.

The gift is just

The moment.

 

_______

Tiny knocks—moths pelting the glass—my delicate midnight company. I was always thankful they stayed with me at the kitchen window, holding back whatever was in the darkness. Even now I will not close the door on them until it’s time for bed.

_______

Suddenly I hear those still Graterford nights—

Peaches resting on the sill,

Light flickering above the sink,

A boy sits writing at the kitchen table

With never a thought of changing—

 

Echoed in the restless air passing Greenville tonight—

Peaches ripening on the counter,

Light glowing above the stove,

A man sits writing at the dining table—

But everything is changing.

 

It must have been some clever trick of Time

That pushed me forward

When I fell for looking back.

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Maine: The Ocean