August 24: Henry Carlile, "Depression," Sadness

Depression

by:  Henry Carlile

He is pushing a black Ford

through an empty street -

a car like his father's

that beat the flat roads like wind

in summer and brought him here.

He never forgave his father.

That was the year he left home.

Then there was talk of weather

and everyone was packing.

Windmills were stopped

all over Kansas.

He is thinking of fathers,

the ways they never forgive you,

withholding love like lust.

But they quit, they stop like pumps.

There is no way to

set them working again.

He is thinking of mothers,

how she could not know how he

half followed girls down dark streets

of his heart, how that loneliness

is passed to sons,

to the fathers of sons.

He is pushing a black Ford.

Its problem is such a heart

you cannot give it enough care.

Like a father it will quit.

And there is no end to this.

___________________________

So, I don't have much to add after that poem.  It kind of encapsulates a lot of what I've been dealing with this past week.

Tomorrow, I go down to the car dealership and sign papers to get my daughter her first car.  On Sunday, I host my book club gathering.  In between, I will clean my house, cook, and prepare my syllabi for teaching on Monday.

Autumn is upon me, with all the upheaval and change it brings.  Every year.  This year--my daughter's last in high school--is going to be a challenge.  I'm not sure I'm ready for it.

Saint Marty wants this summer to last forever.