“Long daughter of the forest, swift of pace.
In whom old neighbors join as beam and brace,
I speed on many paths, yet leave no trace.”
-Richard Wilbur’s “Navis,” which is a translation of a riddle by Symphosius
I’ve been going through boxes in my mom’s garage. Some of them I packed ten years ago, or twenty. Some my mom packed when I was small, and a few have envelopes or little boxes my grandma collected when my mom was small. Today we found my grandma’s birth certificate and coins she saved, complete with a handwritten note to my mom explaining that these would be valuable and they were “for the grandkids.”
A few days before that I found my college copy of Richard Wilbur. The poem I quoted is from a series of riddle poems. I’m trying not to give away the answer. That way you can go walk around with i if you want. (The implied question in this series is always, What am I? And Wilbur uses the answer, in its original Latin, as a title). Leafing through this book, fifteen years later, I recognize so many of the poems. Looking through these documents and pictures, so many years later, I recognize so many of the moments. I’ve forgotten or never knew so many more. So many of us, joining to brace each other. So quick the way our lives wash through each other. I like how the poem and old handwriting and the act of remembering are all riddles, or could be. Are all inviting me to sit for a moment, or walk along with the image, listening to its hints.
Azlan Guttenberg Smith 