Came in close, I heard a voice
Standing stretching every nerve
Had to listen had no choice
I did not believe the information
(I) just had to trust imagination
My heart going boom boom boom
"Son," he said "Grab your things,
I've come to take you home."
Peter Gabriel “Solsbury Hill”
Early spring is fickle this year, just like always. The Indiana wind is whipping up something fierce and it takes turns deciding whose side it's on. Today it swirls a soothing, temperate gust, but tomorrow it will turn crisp and bitter, nearly cutting into my skin with its forceful rhythms and frigid barbs.
Even so, he stood in the middle of it, out in my cul-de-sac. His ride was leaning heavy into its kickstand and the blustery swirl had no influence on it. The tipping of such vintage steel wasn’t even an option, nor would he waver. His hair was all that moved -- what wasn’t shielded under a tattered bandana was nearly horizontal and it flowed free and easy, with disregard for any seasonal squall.
He was fifty yards or so beyond my comfort, but his eyes spanned it with deep concern. I thought I should tether myself to a pillar, perhaps one of grandeur that adorned my home.
How he didn’t get swept away was beyond me.
And then, just like Peter I doubted my step. Deep water was now a prevailing easterly wind and it would surely carry me to Ohio and beyond. Like another Peter my heart was going boom, boom, boom but I managed to split the distance between us, my eyes on his, and approached close enough to hear him over the storm. I had to listen, I had no choice.
"Son," he said "Grab your things,
I've come to take you home."
I imagined him there, disbelieving his words, but still needing to trust him as real, simply because he wouldn't press his flesh to mine. He had to be there with his dark eyes that always love more and judge less, but even so, he'll no longer trifle with my disobedience.
"But I’m fickle this year, just like always," I say. "I take turns deciding whose side I’m on."
He spread his arms then and I was in the eye of it. He spoke of lukewarm as if I didn’t know and I begged him to make me refreshing: cold to one on a hot day, or hot to another on a cold one.
He was not there to negotiate, my chances gone. And so he repeated.
"Son," he said "Grab your things,
I've come to take you home."
I woke up then and I was still.
The sun is peering over the eastern sky, and lukewarm I lie today. Before I move from this spot, I have no choice but to listen to random gusts beat against the walls with their own forceful rhythm.
I crave some tethering to an unwavering influence, and I know it's him. It's got to be him! The tipping of me can't be an option anymore.
