Survivor

Robert Brown talks about talking about leukemia.

She paused at the bottom of the steps. I'm glad you lived so you could grow up to be my Dad.

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He Came Here Often

A white birch tree stands over the grass and canebrake by the edge of the blackwater pool. With no branches left. With no leaves. A branchless, leafless, lifeless trunk, shining white in the sun, standing dead beside the water.

What did you see in your days down here: by the swamp, in the grass, amid the ferns, a stone's throw away from the hemlock grove, in front of the poplar and oaks and maple trees growing on the hill? What did you see?

Did you see my grandfather walking by? He came here often.

He must have been by many times while your leaves still rustled on bending limbs, while you still felt the blowing wind. He must have been by many times while you were here, before this pond, before these cattail reeds, before the swamp water pooled black at your feet. He was a man of steady hand and silent gaze. He made plans hatched from private thoughts collected during his walks and wanderings. You must have seen him.

Did you see him conceiving this pond and this log cabin that you likely never lived to see, planning them, silently and steadily? He usually wore a hat, my grandfather did. He wore it when he walked in the woods. And he would stop to smell the air and view the land and stand still with that gaze and those thoughts and his plans. You would have recognized him.

You must have seen him. He came here often.

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