Conception

A prose poem by Jim Doss

I was nothing more than a random thought swirling around Riverside Park looking for a home. The wind carried me where it wanted. I blew past the statue of a Confederate general whose face pointed to the stars. I drifted over the decayed packet boat Marshall that carried Stonewall Jackson's body up the James to Lexington, swirled past a black Buick with steamy windows parked by the woods, rocking to a doo-wop beat.

I hitched a ride on the back of a firefly, followed a creek into a stand of locust where a dirt path led to a cul-de-sac. Brick houses lined both sides of the street. Cones of light fell from the streetlamps where two men swung imaginary four-irons over cans of beer and watched their balls land next to the pin on the eighteenth green at Augusta. Their wives laughed from the kitchen window nursing martinis as a pot roast simmered in the oven. Diced carrots, onions, and potatoes awaited their moment of glory lined up on a serving plate with a turkey painted in the middle.

I floated over the roofs of several houses before sifting through a screen into an open window. A man rose from the couch to switch off 77 Sunset Strip, then walked over to the hi-fi, stacked songs on the spindle by Nat King Cole, Perry Como, and Andy Williams. As the needle's arm lifted and set down, his hand reached out. A woman's hand folded into his. He drew her close, settled her head against his shoulder. They swayed in the soft breeze of music like a wind chime creating their own harmonies. Her hands stroked the small of his back. His arms encircled her as if he could erase all memories of the orphanage with his promise of a lifetime of growing old together. They danced for what seemed like hours, their eyes closed to the world as headlights swept by their windows. No meanness, no harsh words, no switches striking the back of the legs or arms. Only tenderness like she'd never known, and I came into being, a single cell, hardly random at all, already growing by powers of two.