A Salt Lake City Air-Terminal Memory

by Gordon C. Thomasson

grandma:
unmodish, longish dress,
a hairnet back straight,
and rugged still,
though rural life
and the man she spent it with
are long gone.
while children go forth, she stands,
white gloves clutching
a modest black purse …

older sister:
the tired, haunted glance,
two children and a man
in arms, while she waits
the day he will return
safe, as this
her brother leaves …

the girl friend:
eyes sparkling, clutching
hands that promise more
than should be promised,
for two years
can be longer
than eternity …

parents:
trying to look
proud, concealing,
growing up, growing
apart, growing old.
time
and a love that somehow,
foolishly (they know),
would tell them
they must not cry …

cameras, omniscient,
omnipresent, and unfeeling
man-made angels,
recording all that is done
on earth for heaven …

“great-grandpa Bonner died
crossing the plains
by handcart so
you might go
by plane because he came.”

and again the girl friend,
everpresent, clinging,
promising,
giving without knowing
a reason to be going …

younger brother:
admiration,
the example he will
be told to follow
wonderingly, yet
held by shared last hours,
frantic grasps
at youth ebbing freedom:
one last wild ride on
the hay rake across
pasture stubble, the ritual
firing, then clean and oil
the gun,
the promise of a first hunt
to be shared; too young
to know
how little time there is
or seems to be
for little brothers
for he who returns
to hunt
more beautiful bird …

the best friend:
he’ll never go, and
knowing, as he stands,
will ever stand apart …

and
Aunt Sophie,
Mrs. Spurns,
The dog
left locked,
barking, frantic,
in the truck
never to understand.
pride,
fear,
expectation,
giving only love
to the missionary as he leaves.

Photo by Don Thorpe