Places 06: Friends

Writing can be a break from pressures—like reading a good book or watching a light movie. Revising this autobiographical poem about my first date in 1952 was a pleasant faith-building diversion from pressures and stress. I hope you can travel back in time and relate to bits of it with me.  The line lengths support reading aloud. The meaning?  Honestly, I’m not sure—

A bit of autobiography from 1952;
I was twelve, almost thirteen years old

I
I recall a day—
welling up and stirring
beneath spring’s warming suns,
tender leaves unfolding, breathing out,
as greening weeds and grasses
pushed through earth to sprout
along the curbs of city streets
and inside sidewalk cracks
that I had skipped
to save my mother’s back—
a day when buds brought
faith for fruit to come

I re-live that time —
Sabbath-calms slow city paces.
A hush of peace fills open spaces,
dulls streetcar clangs,
softens nesting songs
and loosens threads of today’s pain—
as memories restore a hold on hope
that once was full, once reigned—
years and years before I knew hope’s name.

Sky-ways were stilled that day.
Few chimney’s smoked
against the cloudless blue.
The Sunday was quiet, holy and glad.
Stores closed, church bells rang,
families rested, went to church,
and got restored—
our days were measured by the war—
and this was afterwards—

II
I remember that I was quite amazed—
when a classmate’s brother asked me to go
to a Davis Theater matinee show.

I didn’t know what to say.
I had to ask my parents;
permission was the only way.
So after school he walked me home—
to meet my folks.
My father and he made all the plans,
we did everything okay.

III
That Sunday afternoon,
that blue-sky-sabbath-sunshine-day—
of spring without, within—
he rang the doorbell just for me—
walking down the street with him
I felt alive and safe and shy and free.

I remember the day—
Up Lincoln to Lawrence
our walking was slow.
Moving together, no more alone,
soft through the harshness
of concrete and stone,
we soaked in spring and our shalom.

It felt like we were Adam
in creation new.
With every innocent step,
a restful friendship grew.
A canopy covered the city,
the air all felt alive.
Too present together
to think what it meant,
it didn’t matter where we went
or if we might arrive.

IV
I wondered why he’d chosen me.
He was different, a girlfriend said—
he and his brother were orphans.
Their history was secret, that much I knew,
two children born in Europe,
adopted by elderly, childless Hebrews.

I was a DAR daughter,
with Puritan blood and pride.
Conflict coursed within my veins.
In religion, place and politics
differences staked claims.
My family was torn into opposite sides
by every American war—

Irish, Welsh and Scottish,
German and ancient Dane,
English gentry and peasant French
marked my ancestral names.
DNA found Polish and Mediterranean—
had mixed in with the Scandinavians—
and maybe, faint traces of Abraham too—
lingered inside my mongrel brew.
But — toss all that aside—
what mattered—I was a dreamer—
a quietly different one too.

V
Two children—
mysteries to each other
and mysteries to ourselves—
strangely, our eyes joined together
with bonds of invisible glue,
strangely all was well,
more well that either knew.

Once he put his hand in mine.
Once, we gently kissed—
Naturally— like playful lambs—
touch softer than a petal
from a flower on my lips
slipping silent down,
welcomed light upon the ground—
quiet like the morning dew,
warmly dawning like the sun,
we were trusting, we were young.

VI
The leaves grew fuller fast that year.
A few weeks later, as soon as school let out,
on another cloudless day,
with a noisy trailer behind our car,
my family left Chicago, we moved a state away.

I didn’t say good-bye to him, and haven’t yet.
His wide brown eyes, looking full into my blue,
gave worlds of hope and kindness,
I cannot forget.

Imprints from my childhood
and my gentle grace-filled friend
nurture longings in me
for friendships without end,
for silences that meet and blend,
for innocence again.

No high thoughts of self,
no entangled holding on,
no unfulfilled desires,
contaminated youth’s pure fires—
I was never his.
He was never mine.
We needed no good-byes.

VII
More springs have come—
more springs have gone—
more partings tore my flesh from flesh,
leaving me bereft of all but God,
teaching me all harvest must be His.

Grain now ripens with the tares,
in worlds where Sabbaths are not set aside,
and purity is compromised,
and children early learn to hide.
But I recall—
a faith for first fruit promise
that was planted deep that day,
locked in memories that stay.

VIII
Blood relatives of Abraham
and brothers of God’s Son
face off in foolish conflicts;
seasons move faster and faster
through our romance with hours.
Ripping jets now roar
above faith’s ancient springs and wells
where Hagar cried to God
in faith for Ishmael,
where Rebekah watered Laban’s sheep,
and followed faith to mother Jacob-Israel
by whose very well
Jesus promised waters everlasting.

IX
fear of covid-19—
protests and confusions—
now fill the city’s streets
where once we soaked in sunshine and in shalom—
where once we walked together
and neither was alone.

Changes have come,
Daring faith to endure,
love to mature,
new friends to forge togethers pure—

God outlasts all alones.

 

 Ginny Emery ©
An earlier version was published in Places, 2011