Post #137: Indistinct in the Twilight

THIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,

Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,

Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,

Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.

Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean

Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it

Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?

Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers --

Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,

Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?

Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!

Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October

Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean.

Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré.

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,

Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,

List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;

List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy. 

 

Henry Longsworth Longfellow

Once upon a time, my twin sister and I had to memorize this for our 7th grade English class. While I do not remember it verbatim, I do remember it. Just as I remember all things in print that have made an impression on me. Just as I remember all the people who have been or are still a part of my life.

Impressions.

Since  a young age, I have always loved to experiment with food. In fact, it was food that I could magically transform into a gift to present to my hardworking grandparents who raised me.  My grandpa's last  food request of me was for my lasagna, which he loved ALMOST as much as my grandma's tortillas. It took me years to make it after he passsed on. Even then, I did not make it the same.

"Mija. could you make me some lasagna when you come into town?" He would ask.

"Of course. When I come into town, I will." I said. Simply. As if saying it would make it so.

The last time I would see him, would not be over a plate of my lasagna, but at a Mexican restaurant.

My treat,  of course. Time was plentiful, so I believed.

My memories infuse with scents and food.

My hindsight is carried with the memories. 

My grandpa is carried within the memories.


This is why I write.