Still There

There are two words that reoccur
in things I think about and share.
Two words, ten letters: "Still there."
They bring continuity to my existence
as if life sometimes needs proof
that it's been lived
for fear it may fade
like the kind of dream
from which you wake
but want again,
and dozing off
you search in vain
for the rabbit hole
that took you where you were.

Knowing some things are still there
makes life feel less like I'm looking
desperately down at dirt
or up from a hole in earth
and seeing only sky.

And so it is
I find myself authenticating life
with these two words:
"still there."
At a story's end,
I may say something like:
It's still there, carved in the tree;
still there--at the bend in the creek;
still there in the corner of the barn;
still there in the telephone nook;
still there in the cellar or attic;
still there, the winding drive that takes me home
and to that vague and fleeting feeling
that life as we knew it is still there.

"Still there" is where my saturated past
is crystallized 'round things
that can be walked to, touched, and smelled
(like a camping tent stored
thirty years in a wooden box).
But how does it feel, I wonder,
when at last the "still theres" are gone,
handed down the family tree
or otherwise carted off
or, worse yet, razed or blown over in the wind,
What happens when all is still... there?

I'll know soon enough it seems,
but in the meantime, I suppose
that that's what dreams
and stories are for.