All That Matters
A Poem by Joseph Roque
All That Matters
My life is a book nearing
completion; some pages painful, but in between
the hurtful lines, jubilant joy, as well―
all converging to an end.
I feel the waning autumns surrounding me.
Even in my teen years I instinctively knew
that quality in all things was more important
than quantity, and so it was―
not by design, but instinctive intuition
that I only had three dear friends;
each of us fiercely loyal to the others,
each of us considered a brother.
Best years of our lives were our summers together―
Each day the same, sun-filled and warm;
clear blue skies. We would meet at the meadow― Our meadow,
sanctuary of renewal, hidden away in the backwoods
of Swan Point Cemetery—a garden
cemetery predating the Civil War and listed
in the National Registry Of Historic Sites.
Here, welcomed by soft lush grass and a handsomely weathered,
gracefully shady oak tree, we discussed the intoxicating choices
of the day’s activities―would it be football or fishing,
baseball, bicycling or swimming?
At the end of each day, we would return
to the meadow, exhausted but joyous; always
a familiar, ever-present gentle breeze whispering softly
until we nodded off.
High school ended; adulthood stuck its nose in our lives
and pre-arranged responsibilities separated us―
I went off to college, Ray and Manny into the Air Force,
and George mainly followed his new wife around.
When Ray settled in Nevada, I couldn’t
find him and never saw him again.
After a few years I reconnected with Manny and George,
but the frequency was sadly deficient, until
one by one, they all passed on.
Since then, every now and again,
I find myself drifting into a sullen web of remorse
over the loss of those friends and the magical
summers spent together―
Is there something I could have done to change
this outcome? Something I could have said to warn
them—or us to stay together, in the meadow,
hidden and protected?
I’m quite sure a younger part of me
will always feel some guilt for not
being able to change the future—that is
now my present.
But I have learned that second guessing is just a wishful
fool’s game.
None of us were to blame for anything
back then, except the immaturity of youth
and unshakeable belief in our immortality.
When we split up, I knew that adulthood stood
close by, but did not know it could be so menacing
and malevolent; did not believe it could irreparably
change our lives, or ever separate us permanently.
So I did not know to fear it―
how was I to know that fate sometimes deceives us
with callous jokes and inconsistencies?
I now know the painful inevitability of life, and will
carry this silent sorrow, but not forfeit
my memories of missing loved ones,
where they remain intact― strong, real, vibrant.
All that matters is
love, reverence and remembrance.
Joseph Roque is a poet who frequently writes about life, love, loneliness, growing older, alienation, and the joys of youth. His poems have appeared in Psychopoetica, Mad Swirl, Aphelion, Death Head Grin, The Poet’s Haven, RagMag, and Cerebration. His latest book is Ashes And Excuses.
