Itch On

At some point, my grandfather,
Weary-tired of the green fields of his birthplace,
Weary-tired of his family and their ways,
Found his way to Rotterdam somehow –
And sailed away toward Africa.

I’d like to think that there was something or someone
Watching over him
A presence in the rigging – a voice within the timbers of the deck
That spoke to him.
And when he sailed into New York
He saw the green lady with her torch raised
And he heard that voice within him.
He chose to listen.
And softly to himself he whispered, “Fuck it!”
(Or the equivalent in Dutch)
And marched off that deck and never looked back.

Fast-forward seventy years:
My brother –
A grandson who never knew his mother’s father
Said, “Fuck it!” as well, and hit the road.
Left his broken family and little town behind
And like Liberty (in his own way)
Raised a torch and focused it down upon the stage –
Himself now, a presence in the rigging
A misstep, certain to pitch him to the deck below –
Perched high among the ropes and catwalks of the theater he loved.
For me, his was sometimes a drunken voice
Calling in the thin hours of the night
He tried to speak to me,
Though I didn’t deign to listen.

I wonder if it is far too late for me
To, at last, listen to my own voice?
Is it just me, or is something perched there among the strings of my heart?
A presence in the rigging?
Hauling hard at ropes.
Pulling the lines taught.
Tuning my inner voice to an uncomfortable and urgent pitch?
As I drunkenly navigate the heaving deck of my middle life,
I know it has been whispering quietly, patiently, for years –
Though I didn’t deign to listen.
“It is time.”
I hear it now clearly.
Time to say, “Fuck it!” and move into the light.

Copyright © 2015 Caleb Belohlavek.