PATHS AND ROOTS: THE FOUNDATION

For Sylvia

Some places have the significance of a dream

that surfaces again after many decades,

like the foundation of the house in the flood plain

of the Kings River. Oaks have grown where the floor

used to be, and brambles, on one side, have conquered

the concrete broken up by roots. When I was twelve, I chased

my brother through oaks and pines beyond a sandy beach

where our father was fishing and discovered

the foundation of the mansion next to the river. After I

inched like a tight-rope walker on the unbroken concrete

of the foundation, leaping across spaces where doors

had once stood, I stopped in front of broken, tilted chunks,

disappointed that I could go no further. My brother

dashed away, ditching me again, but I remained,

alone, confused and fascinated. Suddenly

I heard a male voice state that I would be back

in thirty-five years. I couldn't tell if the voice

was in my head or if it came from somewhere

nearby. I searched, but I couldn't see anyone.

The voice terrified me, but like so much in childhood,

I eventually forgot about it. Thirty-five years later,

I was driving on the narrow road along the Kings River

and happened to look down at the exact moment

when the foundation was visible through the trees

in the floodplain below; if I had looked down a second

before or after, I would have missed it. I pulled the car over

and hiked down to the foundation, retracing my steps

along the low concrete wall. When I reached

the broken concrete, I waited to hear the voice

again. Why had I come back? Nothing. What

has survived the past thirty-five years

is my love for you and our children,

the oaks towering over the foundation,

the brambles still flowing

over the broken concrete.

PATHS AND ROOTS