Just Such Times
by Westel
Golden oceans beckon me, the tide at wind's command,
breezes redolent of wheat assail the senses.
Crystal rivers mirror sky above, and near to hand,
ever-painful memories kindly cleanses.
Kirk made a face, uttered an expletive, and crumbled the paper in his hands. "I can't write poetry, Spock. Gives me a headache."
The Vulcan, reclining elegantly on the stream bank, removed a grass stem from between his lips and turned his gaze from the slow-moving water to his friend. "By what train of logic have you come to that conclusion, Jim? There is a myriad of things which give you headaches."
"Well, poetry is one of them, obviously!" fussed the captain, poking an old-fashioned carbon-filled stylus behind his ear.
"I regret having caused you frustration, Captain. It is a mind discipline I learned when quite young – about four, I believe – which proves invaluable in calming and organizing one's thoughts. . ."
"Yes, Spock, I understand how it must have helped you," Jim said, irritably, as he decimated a lowly daisy, petal by petal. "But I'm not dealing with just thoughts." He tossed the denuded stem into the water.
"True, Captain." The first officer sacrificed the grass stem in like manner and stood, looking down upon Jim Kirk. "Emotions do get in the way, do they not?"
"That they do, Spock. And when you least want them to."
A signal bleeped from the Vulcan's chronometer and his eyes registered regret, though his features remained impassive. He could not fail to notice the visible stiffening of his friend, the determined set of the jaw.
"It's time to go, Jim."
The broad shoulders slumped just perceptibly. "I know. Everything's done here, anyway. The new owners move in next week, and any right I may have had to come here will be forfeit."
A strange desire to understand what Jim was feeling came over Spock, and he stepped in front of the captain, causing him to look directly at him for the first time since they had beamed down.
"You grew up here. Your brother, your mother. . ."
"Both gone now."
"Your father. . ."
"He was never here." The hazel eyes wavered, looked away.
Spock tried another tactic. "The new owners could perhaps be prevailed upon to allow you to visit occasionally."
"No, Spock. Memories are memories. In my mind, in my heart. There's nothing here for me anymore."
They walked back toward the farmhouse, Kirk lagging behind. Spock turned to see him kick the stump of what had been an ancient tree and look up at a second story window. The captain glanced at his friend and flashed a quick smile, gesturing at the stump.
"Elm. Over two hundred fifty years old. I'd crawl out my bedroom window and climb as high as I dared, staring at the stars. Sam found me one night and yelled, startling me so badly I lost my grip and fell. Just managed to break my fall on a low-lying limb. Then I was yelling, and Sam was yelling. . ."
Jim paused, blinking to erase the vivid memory, his smile fading. He turned his back on the stump. "They cut it down last week. Too near the house, they said."
Spock felt it best to keep his thoughts to himself. It would take time for Jim to work through yet another crisis in his life. Only this one would take a little longer, and a little more patience on his part. He knew all too well how gritty his friend could become at times like these, but it was just such times which drew friends closer together. Poetry may not have been the answer, but simple understanding certainly would be.
He stood silently beside his commanding officer, perhaps a little closer than usual, as they waited for beam-up. He was willing to wait until that moment when his friend would reach out to him and share those memories – some precious, others painful – of childhood on an old Iowa farm.
End
