My father met
his future wife
at a bar named
The Oasis.
A palm tree was plastered
on the sign.
Fluorescent lights
lined the eaves of
the building outside,
giving it a glow
for thirsty travelers.
I’m not sure why
my father was there
drinking.
He was supposed to be
deer hunting.
I guess he
had other plans.
Maybe he was in
his own little desert.
Maybe he’d ran too far.
Maybe his soul
was thirsty,
but you can’t drown
your soul in booze.
I watched him try.
He could never
find the spout
for his eternal thirst.
When I was little,
maybe five or six,
my parents would
visit relatives
on Sundays
with me in tow.
And we always
passed this place
where a pipe had been
jammed into the side
of a rock bluff,
a place where
spring water flowed
only five feet from the road
across the ditch, and people
were always straddling
the ditch and holding
empty one gallon
milk jugs to catch
the spring water
gushing from the pipe.
My parents always
stopped for a drink.
They would straddle the ditch,
cup their hands, and slurp,
as if it was bad luck
to pass without taking a drink.
I never understood
why they liked this water.
They never appeared younger.
I guess there’s
something about spring water
flowing from a rock bluff and
through a pipe
in Tennessee
that makes you want to stop.
Maybe it harkens back
to another rock
that ushered forth water
for the Children of Israel
after Moses struck the rock.
I’m not sure,
but it shut the Children of Israel up.
It stopped their complaining.
It soothed their parched throats
and offered them hope in the desert.
Yet, we complain today
about not having
the water of success.
We want riches,
comfort and a solid future.
We keep thinking
it will fulfill, but
it never does, and
we wind up
thirstier than before.
I’m thirsty.
For what I don’t know.
For Him?
Definitely.
But there’s something
I’m thirsty for
that doesn’t have
a name.
It’s like living water.
It’s like a stream
I want to tap into.
Maybe a certain purpose.
Is there such a thing?
1 comments:
I believe that there is a definite thirst for purpose....one that is rarely satisfied. Or maybe I am beginning to smell the rain before it crosses the hill. My eyes are aged from watching for clouds.....~Joey
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