Emmaus

I read some poetry today
by a man who talked about the earth
like an old friend.
It was just a neat idea
until I stepped onto the deck
and heard in the creaking of wooden boards
the tones of a voice I recognized,
until I felt in the wind
that welcome breath of soil after rain,
until I saw in the patchwork quilt of houses and hills
the creases of a familiar face.

I ran into another old friend
later in the day
while playing soccer with my little brother.
It was just a game
until the ball came skidding toward me
and my eyes traced its flight,
until my hips swiveled and adjusted
to the tilt of the earth,
until my toes scraped dirt
for just an instant
and caught the edge of the ball
just so,
until the ball curved away across the yard
and straight to my brother
like I was connecting the dots between us.
After the game,
while walking home through the neighborhood,
I felt a twinge of pain in my hip
and resumed that unexpected conversation.

Throughout the day,
the thoughts came rumbling past
one after another
like train cars.
I thought about my college friends
and our recent video chat,
about the words that came so easy
and the spaces in between
when nothing needed to be said.
I felt that familiar longing for someone
whose eyes could answer mine
like a well-traveled road.
I heard the voice of my grandfather
like the warmth of a fireplace
or a way back home.

I like to think
that those two disciples felt something similar
on the road to Emmaus –
that warmth and wonder and wild joy
of recognition –
when the stranger at their table broke bread
and, for just a moment,
right before he disappeared,
they saw their friend again.

Ezra Pound once said,
 “What thou lov’st well
shall not be reft from thee.”
I think he was right.
How wonderful to know
that with each of these old friends
there will be a reunion.