"You are one of ours,"
He wore a long grey coat,
a thick long beard.
I blinked. He winked.
"You are one of the hill folks
surely as the day you were born."
"Mayhap," I peeped. Mayhap?
where did that word come from?
I looked down at my tanned skin,
hands raw red from the chill in the air.
"We traveled forward through time to
find you." I was lying in bed, and my
bed was perched on a boulder over a
seam of green Serpentine rock,
below lay a patchwork quilt of the
greens, golds and brown-bronzes of
Autumn. I was on a mountain top
and the grey sumptuous curls of
misting fog were rolling in to
obscure the view below.
"I can't be one of y'un," I said,
covering my mouth with my hand to
keep the foreign vocabulary from
"You are, Perchance, yes you are home."
The hills filled with an echo of hymns.
We were surrounded by a church choir. It was a greeting.
"There is a Balm in Gillead,
girl...it is the place of your birth and kin.
We conjured you home so you could begin again,
so your soul could breathe and your heart be set free
to wander once more."
I asked him, "So is this what sacred means,
what sacred's for?"
"Oh, yes, my child, it is to be at home,
to be with your people."
Melissa A Howells Meloo from her Tilt-a-World
Copyright June 4, 2013 All Rights Reserved By This Author.
Accounting of a dream of returning to my people in the Appalachians;
I hadn't realized I belonged there.
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