Early one morning, just before sunrise, Andy and I were sitting talking while me, seemingly uninterested, sat off in the corner listening. We were questioning our revealing to the world where we had been, and what we have become. Andy was arguing that our story was unimportant, a waste of time, as we were simply ordinary people having lived ordinary lives. I disagreed suggesting that our lives, although seemingly unimportant, were unique. I pointed out that we, together with our parents, and their parents, and their parents before them, had lived through a particularly difficult time in Canadian history, and that it was worth telling. Andy was having a difficult time accepting my reasoning, and thought that our past should be left alone, untold, and that our time would be better spent enjoying what few sunrises and sunsets that we had left. I had to agree that our lives, and those of our parents were spent in circumstances similar to many of our class, but as their stories had been buried along with their Sunday best, then perhaps, just perhaps,we should carry on with telling our story. The clincher was when I pointed out that it didn’t make any sense that the stories of those who enjoyed better lives should be labelled as significant when their importance was built on the backs of ordinary people like our parents, and people like us. Andy agreed. He’d always railed at the suggestion that the lives of the merchant class, and their children, could be held in high esteem, whereas the ordinary people that helped to make them was ignored. Finally, Andy relented, and said that we should continue with our story even if it remained largely ignored. At the very least, he pointed out, the experience was cathartic, and helped to keep our minds active. At which point me got up and started to write…..
I Was Musing
I was musing
about where he'd been, and
what he'd become.
It was early morning,
a new day.
In the twilight silence reigned,
just the wind, and the flutter of leaves.
a gift sent,
a time to consider,
perhaps to regret
days spent, and wasted.
His life seemed at that moment
like the moon setting in the west
by the rising sun.
His time was then,
too late to change,
other than what he now regrets.
What was he thinking
so long ago
to grow up, and
Of all the things he could have become
if only he had made better use of the time spent
No sense wondering,
what’ he's done
The sun has risen.
His day has begun.
To Be Young Again.
well not really funny,
more like interesting to hear persons,
older folk mostly,
talking about when they were young, and wishing
that they were young again. Not possible, of course,
and if it were what use would it be? Do they actually think
that it’s possible to relive the past, and if they were able
they’d have no knowledge of the future, and hence
no knowledge of their childhood, and be made to suffer
another future filled with who knows what? Best, I say,
to enjoy the memory of what was, for the past is the past,
time spent, time wasted. The future is what it is,
a mystery built upon our past.