remembering the way it was

Remembering the way it was…

I dreamed I stood with my grandson, I am an old man and we came to my pot on this mountain top. I have been here many times and with me, all those that have come before have taken a little of their vision and shared it with me.

I can see far and it pretty, clear across the valley and all the places there. My great grandson has helped me to this spot. I cannot remember his name, but he looks a little like me when I was his age.

His body is young and strong. He helped to stand tall and erect. I told him the story of his fathers and how we had survived to bring him life. His eyes are bright, wide and innocent. He listens patiently to the
rambling talk of an old man.

Look over there, that is the place I have spoken about, it is a spring. There you will find fresh cold water. When you are thirsty you can take a drink and wash yourself on a hot day. You can lie down next to it and
enjoy the day.

He looked at me and said, I can't see it. I can not see so clearly, but I know it is there. I tell him how it sits against the mountain, how the earth is cracked there and a small stream flows into a pool, somehow made through time. My vision is not that good. I tell him how it has always looked.

There is nothing there, Shi Che' (honored grandfather) There is only a road and an oil well.

Oh, yes, I remember. The tribe was having a hard time and so the need for money was great, those were tough times. Someone needed the water to put back into the earth to bring up oil way down there, below. My spring is no more.

Where have we gone with these things? My great grandson, I am sorry it is not here for you. I did not take care of it like I should have and now it is gone. I can't remember all that was here, but yet some of these things are gone.

Remember, my grandson, there was a time when it was there and that it refreshed us so. I wish I could give you a drink. How is it so that this water is gone forever? Who can take away water, but yet it is so.
The grass is gone and so is the quiet spot. I stand here, and those behind me in the shadows, my fathers weep and so I find myself standing with tears streaming down my cheeks. I feel old and tired and my soul
hungers for what was once ours. My heart cries out a mourning song for the morning dove, the plants, the mountain tobacco and the quiet times that are no more....

Johnny Rustywire Rustywire@yahoo.com


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