Note: A free-verse poetic reflection on a recently and serendipitously recalled childhood memory of a family trip to a tiny house on the outskirts of the small town of Paris, Missouri, the homestead of Carrie Belle Crump Hoard, my maternal step-great-grandmother, and what I, a St. Louis city-boy, fleetingly discovered in the darkness of a country-night, launching a quotidian, life-long unto my dying day quest.
Darkness impenetrable surrounding. Squinting eyes, sightless, searching for light. Even a hint – the moon, in forbidding cloud, masked – absent. All brightness remanded to shadows inhospitable, held in the custody of the next too-long-to-come dawn.
And I, unable to detect, save by imagination, the wiggling fingers of my hand spare inches from my face, felt mortally empty, ghostly incorporeal.
Yet, for once, for first, I sensed the real ever-illumined, inextinguishable presence of my eternal soul.
Thus, I believed, though seeing not, that I was whole.
© 2021 PRA
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