To The Island Poem by Jared Carter

To the memory of Bob Lewis, citizen of Rensselaer, Indiana

Not particularly afraid
of Death, I have always
been concerned that
our discussion not begin
too soon. And so have
placed him off to one side,
on the island, in the shadow
of the willows, to wait there
until the old dream returns,
and I am crossing the bridge -

the white wooden bridge
leading to the library
of that small lakeside town
in northern Michigan.
in the years after the war,
where I spent summers
with my mother, and a sister
younger than me - the two
of us running our fingers
along the painted spokes
of the wooden balustrade
on the bridge - while we
followed after our mother
over the sun-warped planks
toward the island's near shore.

Willow oaks, gnarled
and wizened, flourished
along the island's edge,
and swift black squirrels
scattered in all directions
at our approach. There was
no marina in those days,
only the ramshackle harbor
with the power dam to one side,
the drab wooden storefronts,
the single grocery store.

To the library on the island
our mother would take us,
and we would choose books
to carry back to our cabin,
where, after the evening meal,
she would read aloud to us
while the ring on the stove
made blue fire, and outside,
the wind, along the beach,
kept up its hollow calling.

There was always the singing
of wind passing over the dunes,
now near, now far away.
Later, through the window
above my bed, I could see
the northern lights - wave
after wave - and gradually
their slow, drifting colors
found a way into my dreams.

So it was in the beginning,
so it will be at the end,
when Death finally steps
out of the shadows, out
from among the willows.
'Walk with me, ' he'll say,
as though it were the most
natural thing, and we two
were friends now. 'You've
already crossed the bridge,
and the lake is calm tonight.
It's a beautiful evening.
The old library is just ahead,
the stone steps, the oak doors.
It has always been there.
It is only a little farther.'

In another moment the two
of us will be standing there,
looking out, seeing it all -
the town, the bay, the stars,
the vast mirror of the lake,
everything spread out like
the world of the picture-books
I have always remembered -
a sliver of silver moon,
the lights of a last few boats,
the darkened shore - all
coming together again,
falling into place in the way
a story being read aloud
always comes to the last page,
always manages to arrive
at exactly the right ending.

Then I will be ready.


First published in At the Edge of the Prairie.