Back Home After September

Back Home After September Open fields of dried, winter-sapped brown move past and I crack the window for the rush of cold, familiar air - scentless and fresh. Nearing Neavil's Mill, the trees become thicker, bending sycamores on Cedar Creek's edge, looming pines that cup the woodthrush nests like complacent hands ready for the offering. I stop on the bridge, look down onto the first webs of ice skims, reaching out from jutting bank rocks, tendrils of hair on the water, hanging on by God knows what. There are voices long past living that call from the sun slants that I am safe, that the water and its hold of rushing trout are unchanged, still worthy of time spent stopped on a bridge. They are whispering, Come home and I am embarrassed by the tears that come hard and unrelenting, by the woman who stops her car alongside mine, asks if I need help. I am desperate not to find dependence again on people like this who come unafraid to the side of strangers, who touch easily and rain down comfort like it was no effort at all. I hear myself say the only words I can find -I am beholden to whoever might be listening. —Lisa Parker 68 ...