One Day, I Will Return (poem)
I am an immigrant. Having lived in the United States for twelve years, it is strange to think that, say, fifteen years ago, I would not have imagined myself leaving my hometown, St. Petersburg, Russia. Back then, I dreamed of traveling — I wanted to experience the world. And now I dream of coming back, but in a different sense. I do not desperately wish to return (I was back only once, ten years ago), but I do return to my hometown very often — in my nightdreams.
In fact, I do it so often that these dreams took over my memories. I don’t always know where dreams end and memories begin. There are some places — streets, buildings, rooms — where I dream myself more often than in other locations. And I do not even know why. These places bear some resemblance with reality, but they are also strangely (magically) distorted. I meet people that I knew, or thought I knew. Or, rather, I meet their shadows, what I felt about them when I was there.
I wonder how it will feel to really return. This poem is an assumption about what that would be like. It is an assumption that the return is impossible. You cannot enter the same river twice, as they say. It’s not the same water, and it’s not the same you. But maybe my return will be different. Maybe the memories will merge with dreams to produce new strangely beautiful experiences. I just hope that, one day, I will get to find out.
One day, I will return…
No, this is not the right word.
“Returning”
Means coming to a place where I once was.
But it does not exist because
My memory has turned it into rain.
-
Let’s try again:
One morning, when I walk
Along the streets that bear deceptively familiar names,
Some even hiding echoes of my childhood games,
I’ll look into the eyes of buildings that will seem
So real yet hard to grasp,
Like an unfinished dream.
-
Let’s try again:
One evening, when I step
Onto the floating island of my past,
So infinite and yet confined,
Packed tightly in the nutshell of my head,
Will I be home at last?
Will I be whole at last?
-
Let’s try again:
If I could choose
Of all the places that my memory holds,
Where would I go?
I know:
The sprawl
Of the old park where I once learned
To find birds’ nests and mushrooms under trees
And where, on a hidden path,
A sculpture of a giant’s head
Teased me with mysteries.
-
I think this time I got it right:
When I am old and when my head is light,
I’ll dream myself next to the giant’s face
Half-buried in the middle of the path.
Once there,
I will remove, as one takes off a robe,
The layers of years and skin
And will emerge
Among soft shades of leaves, a child again,
Ready to soak in the gentle sun,
Forgetting what my older self has done.
The journey’s over. I’ll stay there,
Alone,
Letting warm breeze play with my hair.
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