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Down the Lane, I Find Myself

It is here,  

    where the paths are worn grass or dirt and rock,  

that the crowds gather. 

She is nowhere and everywhere,  

mixing with the faces of strangers. 

If I cock and squint,  

  she might materialize from within the dust and smoke. 

It is known  

     that the old town keeps her while she waits  

for us to come and visit. 

She gives us a place  

    to rest, to connect, to remember. 

 I remember, as I can never forget,  


    I beg you to never forget as well. 


It is here,  

     where oil, kettle corn, and turkey legs compete to capture noses,  

   that the portal of time


A place that mingles— 

    the past, present, and future. 

I find yesterday is never far gone, 

      for only a bend in the road takes me back 

   to her gentle, guiding touch. 

The dearly departed reunite with the living,  

      her greetings whispered with the blowing of a train


Her laugh echoes there and back,  

         always to be chased never to be found. 

   I seek and seek, 

 yet always does she elude me. 

 Don’t let her elude you as well. 


It is here,  

     where most choose to stay, beautiful night after beautiful night, 

 that she still feels real. 

I slip off to sleep  

  to the purring of motors and chiming of crickets  

    with reminiscent thoughts of her. 

The tinkle of a trolley bell, the sizzle of bacon, the murmurs of conversation  

 all a call to rise  

      from my slumber. 

I lay a moment with closed eyes  

      for just beyond the tent flap  

        she is there mixing a cup of instant coffee. 

       She becomes Schrödinger’s cat, 

    both dead and alive.  

 You need to believe it as well. 


It is here,  

      where a purple robe with red flowers is adorned,  

        that speaks of early mornings. 

A chilly bite to the predawn air,  

       her gentle hands wrapping me up tight in blankets. 

My hands bracketing a steaming mug of hot chocolate  

made by hers. 

Eyes trailing after her  

   as she piles eggs, bacon, and pancakes. 

All bookended by her elusive smile 

       reflected in the rearview mirror  

     as we pull away from memory lane. 

      I keep coming back for her, 

         even as she slips further away. 

       I know your focus slips as well.

  • Emily Wolff is in her final semester of graduate school finishing her MA in Literature. Once she finishes her MA, she plans to go on to receive a PhD in English and an MFA in Creative Writing. Emily tends to use poetry to explore complex emotions that come from her personal experiences. She finds it to be a therapeutic way of expressing herself with the hopes of others being able to relate as well. 

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