The Grove


I’ve been thinking too much about what they did to the Grove. They owned it, and I understand they think it was for the best; their best interest. But what interest did it serve the folks who already lived there?

I was only four years old then, well before the changes. My family soon moved to Philomath, leaving the park while it was in its pure state, so my memories of Sonoma Grove, though good, are slim and hinge mostly on stories and old photographs.

I know, Bruce, be like water. I should just flow forward and let it go. Only the place holds a place bigger in my mind because it dwells not were pictorial remembrances are shelved, but where feelings float free, giving out details truer than thought.

The fence we climbed, to run in the field we saw, all so tactile even now. The bales of hay, stacked like ancient monuments, became a play ground better than any intended for such. Those days of sun scream beneath my skin not in pictures, not in words, but in pure fresh blood.

Bruce, back then your posters and magazines guided me and taught me strength from virtue. They showed me the need for exercise of both mind and body. Only this is going to get rough now. The sun is far gone. The hay bales, long since settled to dust. Even your strong, kite-like shoulder blades may not be enough to carry us. Your posters are all rolled up in tubes somewhere I’ve forgotten.

Read further, Bruce, without judgement; I know my words will cut against your natural grain. The waters have dried up, and I can only be like I am.

P.K. Ripper

To be continued

K. Shawn Edgar | Death Knoll | Freelance Human | Goat Poet



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