A SELECTED POEM FROM PREVIOUS WRITING RON THOMAS WRITER
Lost and Found Ron Thomas Writer
I’m good at losing things. Car keys. House keys. Two pairs of reading glasses. One very expensive hearing aid. Money in the stock market and in casinos. In my late teens and early twenties I completely lost my way. Loud. Obnoxious. I drank too much. I met a girl. She helped me get my bearings. We married and had two daughters. Ron Thomas Writer I lost my oldest daughter when she was twelve. Lost her in Kapiolani Park on the Island of Oahu, finish line for the Honolulu Marathon. My daughter ran the last mile with me. I told her to wait at a palm tree while I went to get a tee-shirt. My legs wobbled. My mind overflowed with endorphins, like taking a fistful of Quaaludes. So relaxed I forgot about my daughter at the palm tree. I hired a human-powered jitney. Rode like a pasha on a two-wheeled cart back to our hotel. The first words out of my wife’s mouth: Where’s Cheryl? Have you completely lost your mind? We found our daughter. There are many palm trees in Kapiolani Park, they all look the same. Ron Thomas Writer I think of this now as the four of us back-pack the Grand Canyon. So many colors. Side canyons. Formations. So many formations they tangle the eyes. We camp five miles below the rim. In the evening my daughter wants to hike to see the sunset. She’s a woman now, lives miles from us, she is quite capable of making the trip alone. But these are the wilds, darkness is coming. My daughter and I move fast, I’m hard pressed to keep up. Dark clouds swirl and tumble. I remember training runs. My daughter running beside me with her determined look, and colt-knobby legs. Stride for stride her footsteps matching mine. Ron Thomas Writer From the point we look down on the river, chocolate brown a thousand feet below. The sky thickens with clouds. Won’t be much of a sunset. We better head back. I turn away toward the trail. My daughter shouts: Dad, look! The sun has found a hole in the clouds. The rim of the canyon thousands of feet above is brilliant reds, pinks, and golds. My daughter stands at the edge, her arms lifted straight to the sky like a singer in a hallelujah chorus. My child. Woman. Ron Thomas Writer We pack out early next morning, climbing toward the rim. My daughter speeds up the trail. Where you going in such a hurry? She smiles under the weight of her pack. I’m trying for endorphins. I want to go with her, get the runners’ high. But my knees have gotten old. My daughter disappears among the switch-backs high above. You can buy new car keys. Replace a hearing aid. There are some things I’ve lost and I’ll never get them back. For now I’ve got the colors of the rock, the mantra of my breathing, the rhythm of my feet. My feet. The way they bite the trail leaving footprints in the dust that follow me for miles. Ron Thomas Writer |