"No place" my home

 
 

Memorial Day.
3.00pm.
Just home from a five-hour hike across the city.

How can I not despair over this Wasteland?
Shadows of what once was everywhere.
Veneer attempting to mask the unsavory.
God, where are you in this place?

Hypodermic needles on blankets near Mill Creek.
Expressway noise cutting through communities.
Broken glass, barking dogs, chain-link fences.
Keeping out or keeping in?

A city in ruins.
Where are all the people?
Your Kingdom come, Lord, but not here?

The Greek root of “Utopia” is ou-topos meaning “no place” or “nowhere.”
Is this the no place you’ve called me to live?
We split a sandwich for lunch and sip two cold beers.
$29 for this meal on Race Street.
Twenty-nine dollars.
What is this place, Lord, you’ve called us to live?

We walk across the viaduct and watch a red plastic cup swirl in the wind
in the margins of the highway.
It’s like an irregular heartbeat: Ptt…ptt…peluume…ptt-i-ptt…ptt…peluume…
What is this place, my Lord, you’ve called us to live?

We walk up the final hill.
The heat has gone to our heads now; and we’re cracking.
A neighbor on the corner is building a new wooden deck upon an old concrete porch.
The woman with the giant rose bushes looks up and smiles.
Mrs. Jones is preparing her grill for “salmon, dawgs, hot metts,” she tells us.
Michelle waves from under her front porch shade.
The house greets us with a pleasant cool as we enter.
We are home.

 

*Read Part 1 of my reflections on “home” here.

 

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