Vision of Clarksville

I can see this vividly even today:

A drive westwardly down the Guthrie Highway
From the farm
And St. Bethlehem,
Over the Red River bridge,
Glancing over my shoulder
At the green water
Flowing beneath the railroad bridge,
Into the dingy outskirts of town
Turning right at the first light,
Past the tall building on my left
Which always looked like an agricultural warehouse
But apparently had always been the bowling alley
Then around the curve to the left
Following the bend of the road alongside the river
Down the hill to the busy intersection
With the old Shoney's and the Holiday Inn.

At my right, the road leading up over the bridge
Above the red, muddy Cumberland
On up the hill to New Providence
Where Valentine Sevier constructed his stone station
And died before he could see over the river
To the rising eminence of the First Presbyterian Church
Where my great-grandparents worshiped our Father,
My grandmother learning her catachism
On the bluff overlooking the river
And all the tobacco warehouses lined up alongside the riverbanks
To provide shelter for the farmer's crops
Brought into town on flat wooden wagons,
The horses slowly pulling the season's bounty to market.

Or turn to the left, up the long hill into the center of town,
Past the white columns and red brick of the big house
Showing through the oaks and maples on Emerald Hill,
The squirrels and rabbits skittering through the trees' cover.
The cherry sideboard was placed so one could see up the two rivers
Both ways without leaving the dining room;
Provision for the day was a frosted glass of coca-cola
Before we left the cavernous immensity of the house
And our distant cousins.

On up the hill to the nursing home where my great-grandmother lived
Before she passed on to her greater reward
And they converted her final homeplace into a private school
For the fortunate progeny of Clarksville.
Driving past the brick buildings and houses of town
To the next intersection, turning left
Toward the campus of Austin Peay
Where my parents were educated,
Formerly Southwestern Presbyterian College
And the school where my grandmother matriculated.

Take the right down the hill
Leading away from the front gates to Franklin Street
And turn right toward my great-aunt's townhouse,
Parking the car on the street
Taking the limestone steps, the smell of tobacco
And the dead leaves of Autumn
Wafting up from the grounds and the warehouses below.
Ringing the doorbell, the door opening
A white-haired lady, my great-aunt, smiling
From the darkness of the doorway,
And more coca cola.

Walking down the narrow street to Good Wilson's pharmacy,
Many a dollar spent there on model planes and comic books,
Passing the businesses, the funeral home
Where I saw my grandfather's face for the last time
And was introduced for the first time
To the elderly twin cousins of my grandmother
Dressed in their strangely identical finery.

Take a left past the courthouse
And the elaborate gables of the post office,
The postmen and lawyers hustling through the Winter blow
To Christmas deliveries and waiting judges;
Turn left past the courthouse, out Madison Street
To Greenwood Street and the cemetery
Where all would find their final rest
On a hillside, feeling the blow of a Winter storm,
Miss Jane's thin body leaning against me
Against the cold of December
My shoulder providing some small comfort
Against the dying of the season.

Yes, I can still see it,
Though separated by eight years
And the loss of so many relatives
Friends and acquaintances.

Against the dying of the light
Comes a vision of my past
Which still holds a candle glow
To light the darkness of this life's sweet-scented Autumn
And the falling of the leaves.