I introduced the young twenty something to myself at seventeen
and for good measure, them both to me at thirty.
At forty-four I sat back and watched them try to make
small talk, idle chit chat, but not the hint of interrogation
that should be imagined when stuck in a room with your future at sixty,
pompous, arrogant, full of fear and trepidation,
and your ten year old self, who acts pretty much the same.
The glaring glances and accusing stares from the seventeen year old
to my older, yet younger selves, was a mix of, “How did you get so cool?”
and, “How did you get so worn down so quickly?”
They would all look at me at the same time, perhaps over my
shoulders to make sure that I had nobody beyond me yet,
and whisper with a tone of vengeful desperation, “What did you do to us?”
To my seventeen year old self, I would merely explain that he was an idiot.
A child who didn’t know one end of life from the other
and seriously, a caravan to live in, you pompous, stupid fool!
To my thirty year old being,
I would simply explain that life
took a huge wrong turn after the idiotic boy
became quite a frustrating cool dude
who just didn’t realise he was cool
till he gets to the point where middle age came calling
and the lack of forethought for the future once more
wringed its hands.
To the twenty one year old, sat in the pub in Hamilton,
Opposite his grandfather’s childhood home,
New York, Philadelphia and watching chess
with interest on Dupont Circle,
playing cards in Pittsburgh, professing love in a bar on 77th Street,
listening to a barmaid tell him he didn’t love that girl
and who would sit one balmy evening surrounded by
a new beaten generation on a beach at high tide
and the flickering candles of expectation
being drowned in sorrow and wispy lies of happiness
and I would shake that little bastard till
he dropped upon his knees and apologised to the thirty year old me
for giving him too high a barrier to try and see over.
To the thirty year old looking me in the I,
I would smile, as only one can when dealing with a hopeless lost case,
With a touch of compassion but with the glint in that same I
and would say, chin up lad, you haven’t experienced
anything yet pal, there’s still homelessness to come, smile
for you are not down that bitter road yet.
After that though you will get back to Canada
and you will see more of the world than you thought possible.
To the seventeen year old, wondering where he might actually
find a girl to like him, write more poetry you idiot,
don’t leave it to me twenty seven years from now
to still be learning how to do this, I would then cuff him round the head,
it is after all, not illegal to abuse myself.
The sixty year old
nestled out of sight but so close I can hear him breathe,
I ignore, as he I hope, ignores the eighty year old,
digesting every last moment of life, fighting for oxygen
and fighting with himself and the memories
being revisited in the eyes of the seventeen year old
staring back at him. I see them all and I am in the middle alone,
understanding, knowing,
we are all our father’s son.
Ian D. Hall 2015