Atop The New Hill

Beneath Chicktawbut

This weekend I attended A family wedding on the South Shore.
At a golf course Atop a high hill 
Created 
 From the debris of the Big Dig 
 Burying 
 Our childhood swimming holes, 
The Quincy Quarries. 

I surveyed the Blue Hills
 Enthralled by their low line 
 Stretching west To Big Blue.
 My old neighborhood lay beneath Chicktawbut Hill.
Invisible beneath the trees. 
 The world of my youth.
 I knew this view well.
 But from a different angle 
And another time. 

June 1960 

My mother sat me 
Her second son
In the family car
A Ford station wagon. 
Alone. 
Her
Saying two words.
“Chaney’s dead.” 
Her parting steps silent.

Chaney was my best friend.
 I prayed 
Alone 
 To God 
For Chaney 
To come back 
From Lake Sebago.
Silence 
I knew Death 
There was no God.

The hump of Big Blue filled the west. 
Chaney gone forever. 
God too

 October 2023 

 Now the same view 
From a different angle.
 Big Blue
In the autumn afternoon light. 
Boston Harbor a deep Atlantic blue 
To the northeast. 

Behind me
The wedding swirls in dance.
I am happy. 
No, joyful 
To be here 
To see the Blue Hills again. 
 To breathe the familiar air 
 To feel the approach of the colder season ahead. 

It was a good day to be alive. 

For me 
And for Chaney.
He was never gone
Forever.
I am never
Alone.
Never.

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