Magnolia

Inadvertent Symbolism
by Chad Prevost

After three days of heavy rain, we hike.
I carry one son up the scrabble path of mud and rock.
The other tears up ahead
as we complete the climb and stand above the gorge.

Only a generation ago, this sharp bend
between ridges flooded the valley spring and fall.
The turbines kick on below, conditioning the wild
water and—caught in the moment—my life

swallows me in an oceanic present.                     
                                                         White-washed cross
atop a small plateau. I think of my father,
a minister and lifelong world traveler,
rarely took me anywhere, but brought me

artifacts: gypsy blade, Hindu gong, Kenyan ivory ring,
broken clay cup from Jerusalem.
He’d have me write down each Sunday School lesson
even when I barely knew how to spell. He saved

each transcription. Now, a new narrative bubbles
to the current surface, released
into the space between.
                                         Facing east, one son
says, “Look, Dad, Chattanooga between my arms.”

He holds them wide, the shape of a cross.
I see our lives laid out along the surface roads below,
and imagine a man opening a box
in a desiccated attic, a note from his grandmother:

I am so happy to hear of your confession,
and to know you are saved.
                                                  The younger son teeters
at the west edge, throwing rocks too hard off the side.
A boy stumbles like a survivor somewhere ahead.