In Wisconsin there are jutting rocks, piercing through a cold and pleasant landscape of rolling hills, snow, and trees from Colorado. These rocks are shaped like chimneys, or stacks of teetering books. They sit randomly, between the interstate and simulated towns that sport indoor water parks and ski runs without diamonds.
I saw these rocks for the first time in December, on my way to yet another place I had never been. A river city hidden in the northern prairie, on the same river I live, way upstream. I’ve always loved cities that donned an apolis, for the mythic status the term inferred. Minneapolis, a colorful, wide and teeming city in the barren snow, seemed to own a quiet narrative that deserved such rich status.
On the edges of that populated place, between the city and a creamy cold beyond that made me salivate for its mystery, there was a house. And in it, people. These people, strangers in reality, welcomed me into their home for the better part of a week in December. Buying the sort of food I like, talking to me about me, being more than friendly. Games and gifts, winks and nods. I was pleasantly exhausted by their generosity. And well aware that this sort of thing only happens once or twice in a man’s romantic history.
When I left that place, and began to drive back through the places I had only discovered days previous, past the impossible cliffs the Mississippi sculpted ages ago, my experience of life felt sweetened by its unexpected blessings. Of all the states I had seen, these were two I had never known. Of all the people I’ve known, these were a few I was glad to have seen. To myself, I commented on the strange character of time. It punishes us year after year, with the memories. And now and then, it repents with the gladdest future, with the unfathomable ideal that is shaped, in part, by those many aching memories.
Time is wicked that way. Last night I dreamt of Lisbon, and the unspeakable moments of solitude I had with that ocean so terrible and sublime. I dreamt of a back yard in Wichita, where afternoons didn’t end. I dreamt of Chanhassen and the Mission. Of Muir Woods, Siena, and Linden Circle. Of the Replay, the Tap Room, of Mollies, Februaries, sweeties, and the sea. It was a battery of images, and in it, time’s vicious salty promise. For all the places I’ve yet to see, the states and oceans, the eyes and families, some bitter force within insists upon me remembering the places I may never see again. With more clarity than the first time.
These gorgeous awesome storms of April have an awful likeness to those that came before. Yet again repeated, the new season’s quiet beauty sounds a bit like laughter. The buds resemble the past. The grass too, like slurply sweet frosting on a cake. Years and years of a season that turns on the identically colored day. The trunks and dirt, surely they remember. But the color, the petals and blades, speaking so eagerly of the future, they know nothing of the pain.