In Sepia...

This is a response to the #pic1000 A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words prompt from @mariannewest. This is my first contribution to the freewriting practice here on Hive. Thanks for the inspiration.

Here I am… again…
Looking out at the scenes of life once fleeting.
No longer in the cyanotype distance of possibility -
With each breath I sip the thick sepia smog of nostalgia.
Swampy. fecund. teaming with days ghosts gone by.
There is time here for remembering. Reflecting.
No time here.
Nothing but time here.
1.2.3.4.5.6.1.2.3.4.5.6.1.2.3.4.5.6
Reel. Real. Realty.

This body-mortal-home now seeing time as distance.
Panoramic and consuming.
This hunk of deteriorating real estate
Slowly giving way to the land that bore it.
The creeping ivy growing through the windows, floor boards, electric lines
Opening the once locked doors to the birds
singing songs of reclamation and belonging.
I can see the pond from here.
See the open space where we kissed toads and mucked about in the muck.

Reel. Real. Realty.
1.2.3.4.5.6.
If I could do it all again I would…
What…
Move more slowly.
Notice sunsets.
Sunsets as lovers. particle paints mixed by angels
with no intention but to remind us of joy as an option.
Bathe in crickets.
Let their song tune my cells to pulse in synchrony with the turning of day into night.
Feel the teasing winds caress my skin and hair.
Lie upon the Earth.

I would inhabit my life,
Not as an idea or distant film.
As a wholesome act of awe and wonder.
A declaration of poetry in form.

But then, why linger in the static clinging of regret?
Could-have-been is a nowhere land.

I am comfortable here this moment.
Watching my neuron twitching physiology dress up as memory and desire.
Flickering racing thoughts slowly settling into recognizable forms.
Remembering what, my first job as a line cook,
My brother beating me up to show off for his friends,
The crowning of my firstborns head,
Putting dirt on the grave of my grandmother…
not a single handful, but sleeves rolled up, sweating, as we fill the entire hole.
These become companions.

I am comfortable here.
Re-membering.
Inviting the pieces to return.
Calling the moments home to a quiet marsh scene of solitude and homecoming.
It is so easy to smell how death becomes life here.
So easy to rest.

I am ready now.
Play soothing music.
Roll credits.
Exit light.
Give thanks.