There was no light, there was not a glimmer of hope, there was no way out.
Confronted by the enormity of the events, he flailed around for a hold, a resting place, a ledge.
Nothing seemed to offer any respite from the prevailing gloom, from the pain.
Shredding tears...
He picked up a piece of paper.
He looked at its surface.
He took a pen.
He dragged out a line.
"In whose name?"
He looked at it.
There was no answer.
Nothing else followed.
He rewrote the line.
"In whose name?"
There was no answer.
Nothing else followed.
He...
He...
No, he couldn't even remember that bloody verb.
He tossed it into the bin.
He looked down at the bin.
It was full.
None of it made any sense.
He put down the pen.
Wrinkles and scars.
He looked down at his hands.
He studied the wrinkles.
He followed the scar on the palm of his left hand with his index finger.
Nobody could take away that scar.
Nobody would notice that scar.
Nobody would understand the intimacy of that scar.
What does it all mean?
Suddenly he noticed her.
He looked up to meet her eyes.
She spoke.
"I just wanted to say..."
"Please don't change..."
It wasn't really very much.
It was undeniably cryptic.
Even if she was the only one...
It was enough.
He could go on in that knowledge.
That is very well put, said Candide, but we must cultivate our garden.
ReplyDeleteKeep on!
Thank you. Yes keep on.
DeleteThis is poignant and touches a chord with me. A long time ago, when I 'cleared out' what was once my home and left America - I recycled three garbage bags of writing. It wasn't shredded, but I watched it being taken away... took me a long time to get over those shredded tears and find my verbs again.
ReplyDeleteThanks Laura. Yes Clearings are difficult voids to grieve.
ReplyDelete