Welcome Home, Cynde and Mike. I Know It Was a Week of Many Emotions. Thinking of You.

Anyone who knew Fred Isgar, knew his absolute adoration of Dylan. Fred was the apple to many an eye and I always loved our conversations, especially around Louie, a Sudanese refugee who interned under him in the heating and air condition business. One of my favorite memories was when I arranged a reunion between the two. 

This morning, I am also thinking about the photographs I used to peruse when visiting my grandparents in Hamilton, New York...the ones when my grandfather served in the Navy during WWII and the mysterious letters my Grannie Annie wrote to him and Rosie (we now know who Rosie is - thanks for the collection of nude photographs, Grandma).

I am thinking of my sister and brother-in-law this morning, as leaving Missouri yesterday must have been hard for them. For the last month, life has been building up for the reunion, and I know their hearts are filled (as are our, who kept in touch with them in celebration of his accomplishment).

For ten years, I often said goodbye to my students who I knew and loved for four years. I remember then how much I hated that they were leaving our school and moving on. It helped me to realize how much it must have impacted my own family: sisters and parents, every time I chose to depart and go somewhere else. It is easier to leave than to be left. I learned this, too, when Chitunga left for college and am reminded of this every summer when everyone leaves me once again. The routine is constant, until it isn't constant any longer.

I remember when I left Kentucky, I scribbled a sestina as part of my goodbye and I think the words are relevant again today. I am thinking of Cynde and Mike, my nephew, and everyone who gets tripped by the inevitable cycles that come our way (last night, knowing Cynde and Mike were missing their 30 year high school reunion, I choked up thinking about those seniors, when I was a sophomore, are now adults seeing their own kids leaving them. As I told my mom, "I still feel that the high school belongs to us, and our generation." She responded, "This will be the 1st year where I don't have anyone in North Syracuse Central Schools." 

It is strange, indeed.

So, I'll leave the sestina I wrote in 2007 when I left Kentucky (a poem that was published by the Louisville Writing Project that takes on new meaning today).

                                                                his leaving (a sestina)

                                     ~Bryan Ripley Crandall

            he never turned back.  packed his bags and left

            beyond a circus and history in his pocket.

            “goodbye, old world.” he promised. “i’m on my way now,”

            and stepped on the gas to drive away.

            that was when he was younger;

            fledglings have reasons to leave the nest.

            he walked onto his porch, today, & saw a bird fallen from nesting.

            glanced at telephone wires to see if winged parents had left

            this featherless embryo with its bulging purple eyes, so young,

            and a beak open for insight (the creature could fit in his pocket).

            youth fallen from its house, so quiet. he needed to find a way      

            to get the lil’ guy into shelter & now

            seemed as good a time as any, he thought. the parents

            were away and he climbed to the roof, found the finch’s nest.

            the flight was his fault. in his world, it’s always

            his fault, and he could never be sure how many days he had left.

            he put the bird in the twigs, climbed down with hands in his pockets

            to think about how vulnerable we are when young.

            when he was younger, 

            he promised his family he’d be rich, but now

            he made little -- crumbs -- and his pockets

            were filled with poetic lint.  perhaps this is why he harnessed

            every moment for what it was. whether he turned right or left,

            he’d find a figurative way

            to gain meaning. his friends thought it was his getaway,

            his escape: his solitude & his introspection, to make him younger.

            he knew, however, he had only three weeks left,

            and recognized he’d probably never really know

            where his heart was anyway - in this Louisville nest

            or perched in Syracuse (with a piece of gum from his front pocket).

            as a child, he used to pick his parent’s pockets 

            whenever he needed comfort or a way

            to get what he wanted (spearmint), but today he watched clouds, nestled

            in gray patterns of unconsciousness. Carl Jung

            would approve – he knew

            the brain worked in depths deeper than right or left.

            

            kentucky pockets carried younger

            new york days. he moved on: yes, maybe, perhaps, no.

            remembering the nest and the difficult choice to leave.