The Spring

The Spring

I stood with my grandson, I am an old man and we came to my spot 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 is pretty, clear across the valley and all the
places there. My sight is not so good but I know it looks the same, it
is beautiful.

My great grandson has helped me to this spot. I can not 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 on the grass, soft earth 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 grandson, I am sorry it is not
here for you.

I didn't 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 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
our a mourning song for the morning dove, the plants, the mountain
tobacco and the quiet times that are no more.
rustywire