It is not that
there is no information
about the King of Petty's
Island - the son of Roulston
of Raphoe in County Donegal.
That would just
be wrong to believe.
What we lack is
context. The who of
Ralston's self - the size
of his Scots-Irish hands,
the swagger of his gait
along the isle shores, the
color of that beard,
the name of that dog
at his side, what he sang
as he tended cattle and
harvested the pulse.
Did he bathe
In the Delaware.
Was he a good father,
a religionist of any note,
(buried by a black pastor
from the M.E. Church in
Camden, NJ)
was he concerned with
equity, did he smoke a
pipe, what did he hold
dearest in his life, what
might he have said
when asked about
favorite colors or sounds,
what did he know of
HIS people - OUR people.
How much did he know
of Whitman's poems;
how about of Walt himself.
Neighbors that they were.
These are the things
a heart holds on-to-know.
I have struggled three times
to gain access to the land
that I might hike upon
the dirt he stretched out
upon. I cleaned up all sorts
of trash washed up on his island
shores from boaters on the
river and fair Philadelphians.
I have walked his isle, and
hoped for stories to rise up
to me that I might tell them.
Rise up from the dirt.
All I have are those tidbits
stored in the dozen articles
about him, his children, and the
fire that ousted him from the
island two years before his
death. Was life too busy for
our people to share the stories
as we grew. Or, did the murder-
suicide in another branch of
the family
seal the books of
of context from our lips.
Hoping to keep us all at
bay for fear one story would
lead to another, and another lead to
the mess. It is hard to decipher
what is not written, it is difficult
to strain for meaning in what is
not spoken. Countless leaves have
fallen to the ground, unopened.
Endless laughter has been stayed
in its tracks. Seeing him in my beard
gives me hope that a family
can recover context for its footsteps.
And so,
I cup my ear
along the water
in the morning
and I listen for
what he has to say.
I turn my nose to the
river for a scent rising
off its surface.
We do not need to know
these treasures to survive,
but it is an hollowed out
soul that seeks itself
only to survive.
Rise, Ralston. Bring
your dog and island
songs. Stay a while
and give me pause
to know my context;
to know my past.
This hunger is some
days - NOT ENOUGH.
I feel you in the pounding
of my boot on dirt. Stay
a while more, have one more
cup of coffee.
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