The Lonely Man
While a teacher at Cumberland Middle School, which now seems like a lifetime ago, I used to drive a long and windy country road (Stonypoint Road for those of you that know the area) to get to the school. Every afternoon at a big horseshoe turn in the road, there would be an elderly man who would be sitting in a woven lawn chair in the front yard of a small, weathered, white home at the far side of the curve. He would always smile and wave with only his thumb and pointer finger.
I would contemplate all of the things that this elderly man must have experienced in his lifetime; how incomprehensible some of it seemed to my own short lived experiences compared to his many years. Although we saw each other everyday in passing, how mammothly different our experiences must be, he an older southern black man in rural Virginia, and me a twenty-something white woman from suburban Pennsylvania transplanted here. I thought to myself, he must have some fascinating stories to tell. I always wanted to stop by and hear them, but I never quite mustered up the courage to do so.
The Lonely Man
Everyday
Wherever I go
You sit there.
Waiting for me to pass
So you can wish me well
With a wave of your hand.
I can’t help but wonder
What goes through your ancient mind as you see us briskly pass you by in a blur?
You sit there, patiently.
One of these days, if I can slow down,
I’ll stop,
And sit at your feet,
And talk,
And listen to all your memories, as a black man,
Your family gatherings in the sweltering summer heat after church in your starched shirts and suits, sitting in the shade of the majestic tree canopy,
Fishing with your children down at the creek, the youngest dangling her toes in the water from the old log where she sits,
Living in the South at a time when the KKK openly preached their hate.
Oh how far we have come as a people, but
How much farther we must really travel.
As your weathered voice
Fills the breeze with all your life songs,
We … relax.
But, for now,
Everyday
Wherever I go
You sit there
Waiting.
Beautiful! Don’t you wish you had stopped once? There’s a good lesson there for all of us!
I sure do. That poem was based on events probably around 1995-ish. I often wonder what happened to him, and if he still lives back there.