Walking to the River

It was early 2020, and I retired.
Sad and lost, I stared tearfully
at skirts and scarves and blazers
I might not ever wear again.
I was hardly aware, two weeks later,
when the rest of the world shut down,
as if everyone had decided to retire
with me. As vaccines and masks
and home gyms and Zoom meetings
became our reality, so did Folklore.
Doing my best to the ignore the
constant pain of a leg set on fire
by sciatica, I walked to the river
and back every other day.
I walked with resolve, and I walked
with poetry. I marveled at lines
I wish I’d written. Haunting
melodies jolted my body
like unexpected electric currents,
and tears came on cue
as I was once again the little girl
who needed to pack my dolls
and move to India. Sometimes
I was the only person walking,
and I could sing as loudly as I wanted
about Inez and her tedious rumor-mongering;
suddenly, I was fifteen again,
when that girl Ginny stole my boyfriend
(but he came back to me).
And sometimes, I was a mad woman
reliving my crazy-making marriage
and agonizing divorce yet another time.
I walked many miles that year,
dragging all my pain and uncertainty
to the banks of the blue-gold river.
But I was never alone, never without poetry,
never without the awe that still overwhelms
me when I revisit the folklore of 2020.

Diane Elayne Dees

If you have any thoughts about this poem, Diane Elayne Dees would be pleased to hear them