The Back Pocket Series vol. 3. Distant Falls the Sublime


When I was little and it rained, I thought it was the past. I’m not entirely sure how the two ideas got linked in my small kindergarten, naptime-and-graham-cracker mind, but I think it had something to do with the blurring. The world out the window seemed to run a little. To fade together and waver the way old photographs do. I would stand at the window and expect to see my great grandmother, in her dress of ivory lace froth like foam on waves, emerge from the fogged-over corner of the backyard; long trailing ropes of roses entwining in the impossible architecture of her hair like ivy vining over misty tower ruins. At her feet would be my grandfather, in short overalls, perfectly pressed, playing with a duck on a string. His name back then had been Francis, they told me, and there had been a black dog. The kind of dog, that when you’re little, looks like a pony. In fact, you think it is a pony, and when you finally see a real pony, strapped to one of those sad revolving pony sweeps at the fair, like Samson from the Bible, scarred blind and shorn of greatness, pushing out the bootless circle of his diminished yellow life in a Philistine dungeon, your heart breaks and you cry and you can’t seem to make your parents understand that it’s not that you’re afraid to ride… but that you sorrow for Nobility Lost. That you weep for glory turned suffering, for the occlusion of the Light. That your lament is Milton’s. Donne’s. Christ’s over Jerusalem. It is the cry of the soul of humanity for itself, wailing, ‘This ought not be so.

I would run out, those rain-softened, mythical afternoons, breaking loose the grip of mother-fingers fastening too many buttons, into the grey of my watery ancestry, and play with little Francis and his wooden duck. And the dog would stand sentry, its black eyes pure, deep, augured understanding, looming over my head like a benevolent, curly-backed Cerberus; and the sky would let fall its collection of days – of hours gone by, and minutes and conversations and lines of old melody, all collecting in puddles under the arching hedges – a precipitating history of the world. Ten thousand pools of ancient memory lay in the kingdom of the backyard; perfect for sailing paper boats, for startling worms from the umbrage of displacement, and for punctuating the Red Seas of all the yesterdays with giddy, raucous splashing.



12 responses to “The Back Pocket Series vol. 3. Distant Falls the Sublime

  1. lovely. so vivid i felt as if i was standing there with you and pulling the duck. i find it ingenious and so imaginative that rain was the past to you. and yet, it makes so much sense, and i think i have felt the same before.

    • rain is pure nostalgia. whether for a past we remember, or one that predates us, for a person, a place, or for something we have yet to lay hold of.
      so appreciate your comments!

  2. You have opened a window on the past: one in which each reader can see her own past, and the past that is to come. I adore that final paragraph. Each sentence is perfectly balanced and weighed against its companion, and the thoughts contained within are sublime.

  3. ‘Lead me to your puddle!’ I’d love it…

  4. Such descriptive writing… I really enjoyed this.

  5. What a beautifully crafted memory piece! I especially love the flow of the imagery and the way it leads me through your “mythical afternoons” and into simple childhood fun. Amazingly real — childlike indeed.

    • the wisdom we have in childhood, we lack the language to express at the time. i like to try to interpret or translate my own children… some attempts are more successful than others.

  6. Oh, yes, this is perfection. I could see your great-grandmother (or mine) and your grandfather’s childhood, duck and dog. In my mind “curly-backed Cerberus” makes it a Newfoundland dog.
    I can relate to the way you saw the pony as Nobility Lost, and to your weeping for “this ought not be so”.

    Kay, Alberta, Canada
    An Unfittie’s Guide to Adventurous Travel

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