Pack.
Unpack.
Repack.
Unpack.
Pack again.
Unpack.
Pack one final time.
I’ve left out
almost as much
as I’ll have with me.
All that fit
are the necessities:
three changes of clothes,
a sleeping bag
wrapped in a poncho,
soap and shampoo,
toothbrush and paste,
deodorant, cologne, brush,
compass, rescue mirror,
journal and pencil,
travel guide, passport,
camera, tripod, film,
jar of peanuts,
peanut butter,
headphone radio,
three tapes,
one book,
rosary,
and Bible.
I groan as I try it on,
realizing just how heavy
thirty five pounds can be.
A paradox, though,
that my whole life
could weigh so little,
as if the past twenty three years
amounted to no more
than a few stray objects
crammed into three cubic feet
of backpack.
Reality begins
to register.
A whole Summer
of impatient excitement
is finally over.
September 23rd, 1997,
an adventure begins.
In my mind I see
the grey and the green
of that fabled landscape,
a land of historic confrontations,
a land of great saints,
a land that attests
to the strength
and indomitable spirit
of the common man.
I am prepared
to face the unknown,
with no plan
but full of
dreams and freedom.
I have no clue where I will go,
no idea where I will stay,
and no notion whom I will meet.
Will I ever even see
this place again?
Only God knows.
His hand will guide me
as I abandon myself
to the whims
of the wind
and follow
the still-small voice
of inspiration.
My soul stirs
as the chorus,
“Ireland, I am coming home…,”
repeats on the CD player
for what must be
the fiftieth time.
They say home
is where the heart is.
The song, then,
is my own.
My heart and my mind
are an ocean away
as I lie on my bed,
knowing I need some rest,
staring blindly
at the ceiling.
The hour draws
slowly nearer.