What Sam's Grandmother Said
(new take on The Longing)

It always seemed to me that boy had city blocks sticking out of his head. Or maybe they grow inward; I can't tell. They grow thick, whichever it is, and it's like Sam spends each day weaving through his own internal forest. He finds a path out to a clearing on occasion, but the clearings, of course, are always claimed. Basically, he's stumbling around in anticipation of the day he finds some unclaimed space where to put down roots.

For now, that forest of his really is petrified, really concrete, like buildings, like sidewalks. Sam has walked in downtowns everywhere, and I am almost certain he's been looking for someone in particular the whole time, whether he knows it or not. He crosses continents alone, runs from the paved heart of one city only to let himself be sucked into the heart of another. Whenever he leaves a city for the last time, he really sees it for the first time too, and wonders what exactly he can take with him, which nights out, which familiar doorways and routes.

The rains sticks out best, because on the rainy days, he was relieved of his looking. No light. No gems to refract some light. When it rains in any city, a person can feel whole. Any street you walk on is yours alone. You can close your eyes and fool yourself into believing the woods around you aren't actually made of stone and mortar after all. Sam likes the wet and empty streets. He likes to feel that one constant thread.

And he feels most at home in the desolate parts of town, the south sides, where the mills used to be but now only the pubs remain. He tries to catch sight of the sky when he can, and when he does, it reminds him of Kansas. He's never been to Kansas, but every time he leaves a city, he promises himself he's headed back there. It will not be new to him when he finally does. He will really be returning. The promises he makes this time around will be the promises he never made before. The ways he speaks will be the ways he always meant to speak:

"I have been looking for you constantly. I have repeatedly returned to spots where I was certain I had seen you before. I've looked for you at busy markets and in crowded squares. On the familiar stretch of the walk home where all the faces drop away, I have imagined you still might come around a corner some night. There are always those parts to the walk, no matter the town. And I knew when you finally did arrive, the words wouldn't matter either, the country, the language, the time."

For now, Sam weaves together recollected bits and pieces of dreams. Sometimes, when he stays the night, I can hear him through the door to the guest room, practicing in front of the mirror late into the night:

"It's not that I'd stopped looking for you. It's just that it rained every day of my trip. Finally, I decided when it rains, the world has a chance. Old pictures come out from dusty albums. When it rains, I remember what has changed and what has not. The funny thing is that I was born and bred on city air and city water, and I used to think I could change. But I've always had the same farm stuck in my head, lodged up inside there, almost withering away now behind the city streets and blocks, quiet at night, waiting to be reborn. I used to go out into the fields and look for you there, when the rain let up. I waited on the porch late at night sometimes, and wondered how a woman could ever find the porch of a house she'd never seen. I used to go into town, compelled to do errands, compelled to see faces, thinking I was different, more intimate than others, willing to give of my soul. I never did happen to find you, did I, on any of the random streets I crossed. Never did find you until I finally stopped looking--who'd have known the finding would follow so quickly?"