Walking these north west highland hills of Scotland
A mist filled forest on cliffs edge above
Deep blue, black waters below
Some thirty paces off to my right
Eyes coming to rest
On an old stone cottage… no roof
An open doorway
The only discernable feature
Stands like an ancient stone dolman
A threshold invitation
From this place and time
Into another
Walking through
I sit and wait
Nothing… nothing
I stare at the backs of my hands
The mist
Settling in against my skin
Wet, freckles, emerging age spots
My father’s hands!
I see my father’s hands
Tracing the story lines
In these old hands
My father’s hands
Four years old lying on a cot
The dark belly of an old shrimp boat
Somewhere in the Atlantic
Off the Georgia coastline
I reach out my right hand
Into the dark night
Clasping around mine
I feel my father’s hand
No words are spoken
In that moment
All I need to hear
Is said by my fathers hand
Seventeen
I faked left
Moving right along the baseline
My ankle rolling right as well
Snap!
Nightfall
Swollen, painful
Wrapping warmth and words around my ankle
“If I could carry this pain for you, I would”
My father’s hands
Thirty-two
My hands now holding his,
Breath slipping away
Voice barley audible
A poem read aloud
“Should You Go First”
My mothers voice
Last breath
Warm body turning cold
Spirit ascending
Holding my fathers hand
Thirty-six
Push now!
The midwife says
Head emerging
Eyes looking up
Into mine
My hands
Cradling my daughter’s head
Welcoming her into life
Fifty-five
Mist rising around me now
Staring at my moistened hands
In these north west highland hills of Scotland
These hands… my fathers hands
by ~Kedar S. Brown, Sept. 5, 2015
Inspired by a hike in the North West Highlands of Scotland.