Post by amnacar on Oct 2, 2007 9:09:21 GMT -6
Northern winds blew the sky blue
cloudless crisp with leafy boughs swaying
hula while sauntering geese honked.
The cemetary was empty except for battered
maintenance trucks moving like ants in a farm.
With my cane, I walked the winding pathes hedged
with tombstones, granite and squared. The Eastern sun
unfurled itself into blinding swathes that cast longshadows.
Autumn released itself. The scent of chloraphyll permeated the
air and formed a haze among the stands of trees with
sagging boughs. How tired they seemed. It was as if the weight of Summer had finally oppressed them into humility and they
gasped their exhaustion into the early morning dew.
Swinging my cane with an unhummed Benny Goodman rythm
in my head swirling like leaves caught in a whirlwind, I continued
my jaunt through the cemetary. I come upon her grave.
She is unknown to me but I remember the day in July when
a group of three teenage girls stood by the tall bushes.
In their hands were balloons, flowers, and trinkets. They were
speaking and weeping at the same time, so their words sounded
like mush, high-pitched like a frightened toddler, and their mouths were contorted into ghastly frowns of open-mouthed
pain full of saliva. They wore Cabbage-Patched faces of
mourning upon their unblemished, pink faces framed with
long hair.
I remember passing them during my July walk and feeling embarrassed and honored at the same time to be witnessing
their intimate despair.
Now they were as ghosts and all that remained was the butterfly
trinkets, artificial floweres, and a garden stone placed upon the
earth to mark the unnamed girl's body. There was no headstone.
I paused to reflect upon the tiny memorial. I assumed it was a
girl who had died in the early glimmers of her upcoming adulthood. Given the trinkets and colors, the letters unopened
placed upon the grave, the colors used, I had assumed. But I
did not know.
All I know is this blankstone grave was the chalice into which three young girls had poured their their tears and poetry. I had
come here to honor this grail. The night before I had beaded
what I had titled "Mourning Tears." It was four strings of glass
beads, two ending in bells, one in a silver feather, one in an
angel. Now, I searched within the gnarled branches of the bush
to find a place within it to hang my contribution. I found a
sturdy limb in the middle of the bush where pruners would
not venture. The twigs nipped at my hands as if irritated by
my invassion. I hung the tears there. As I stood, I could see
the colors of the glass beads wavering like unwept tears.
The wind caught it, and I heard the tinkle of bells. The leaves
had thinned since July, so the "Mourning Tears" would be
visible to anyone who stood here.
I stood before the unempty emptiness. No prayers, no thought.
Just...standing. Staring at the gaudy pink of the artificial flowers.
It was not until I had walked ten feet away from the site that
I thought of a Catholic prayer, "Eternal rest, grant unto them,
O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them."
The ten o'clock sun was bright. Then it was veiled by gray clouds that had travelled from the NorthWest. I had not noticed the
clouds until then. I could see rays emanating from behind the
pewter solidness.
For a moment, I wondered what had happened to that nameless girl. What had been her dreams and ambitions? Had she had
sex? Had she experienced romance? Was she popular? Why had she died?
What about her parents? How did they feel?
And then I stopped myself from wondering. I did not want to
imagine that Clytemnestra grief, that revenging tide of horror
that may not have had a mark to hit. I did not want to hear
that Mystic River scream.
I wanted to walk. That's all. Just walk. I breathed in the air,
cool and crisp like apple cider. Just walk. I swung my cane to
recapture that unhummed Benny Goodman tune. In the distance, I heard the chimes hanging over graves rattle like
bones wanting to move.
I continued my morning walk. On my left, I passed an unburied
coffin. I paused and made the sign of the cross. It waited.
Bronze and cubed, very fancy and patient. "Like a gentleman,"
I thought, "waiting for a room at some high rise, expensive
hotel in New York." The maintenance crew would bring out
the bulldozer to dig out a hole.
The wind blew. The weatherman on television said that the
gusts would be between fifteen and twenty miles an hour.
I felt my eyelids form a slit. Even though I wore thick plastic
lens, I was facing the full force of the Northern wind. Around me
there was movement of leaves rushing. Chimes throughout
the cemetary sounded.
I almost lost my wide brimmed cap. I grabbed it as it began to
lift off my scalp and pulled it on tighter around my head. My head
bowed before the wildness of the wind. It was the only way I
was going to keep my cap.
"De-CAP-itated." I laughed aloud. "Not today.'
I began my stride. "No. Not today." Although the cap was
old enough and had been sweated into enough to have been
discolored from white to an antiqued eggshell. The salt from
my sweat had done its work. Perhaps it was time to get rid
of the cap and buy a new one.
But would I be able to find a wide brimmed white cap worthy of
my head? I despised narrow brimmed caps. To me they were
too masculine. A wide brim not only shielded the the eyes but
my rounded cheeks as well. I lost myself in the dilemma as
I rounded the path.
Ignored by me, the headstones lay silently speaking.
(to be continued)
cloudless crisp with leafy boughs swaying
hula while sauntering geese honked.
The cemetary was empty except for battered
maintenance trucks moving like ants in a farm.
With my cane, I walked the winding pathes hedged
with tombstones, granite and squared. The Eastern sun
unfurled itself into blinding swathes that cast longshadows.
Autumn released itself. The scent of chloraphyll permeated the
air and formed a haze among the stands of trees with
sagging boughs. How tired they seemed. It was as if the weight of Summer had finally oppressed them into humility and they
gasped their exhaustion into the early morning dew.
Swinging my cane with an unhummed Benny Goodman rythm
in my head swirling like leaves caught in a whirlwind, I continued
my jaunt through the cemetary. I come upon her grave.
She is unknown to me but I remember the day in July when
a group of three teenage girls stood by the tall bushes.
In their hands were balloons, flowers, and trinkets. They were
speaking and weeping at the same time, so their words sounded
like mush, high-pitched like a frightened toddler, and their mouths were contorted into ghastly frowns of open-mouthed
pain full of saliva. They wore Cabbage-Patched faces of
mourning upon their unblemished, pink faces framed with
long hair.
I remember passing them during my July walk and feeling embarrassed and honored at the same time to be witnessing
their intimate despair.
Now they were as ghosts and all that remained was the butterfly
trinkets, artificial floweres, and a garden stone placed upon the
earth to mark the unnamed girl's body. There was no headstone.
I paused to reflect upon the tiny memorial. I assumed it was a
girl who had died in the early glimmers of her upcoming adulthood. Given the trinkets and colors, the letters unopened
placed upon the grave, the colors used, I had assumed. But I
did not know.
All I know is this blankstone grave was the chalice into which three young girls had poured their their tears and poetry. I had
come here to honor this grail. The night before I had beaded
what I had titled "Mourning Tears." It was four strings of glass
beads, two ending in bells, one in a silver feather, one in an
angel. Now, I searched within the gnarled branches of the bush
to find a place within it to hang my contribution. I found a
sturdy limb in the middle of the bush where pruners would
not venture. The twigs nipped at my hands as if irritated by
my invassion. I hung the tears there. As I stood, I could see
the colors of the glass beads wavering like unwept tears.
The wind caught it, and I heard the tinkle of bells. The leaves
had thinned since July, so the "Mourning Tears" would be
visible to anyone who stood here.
I stood before the unempty emptiness. No prayers, no thought.
Just...standing. Staring at the gaudy pink of the artificial flowers.
It was not until I had walked ten feet away from the site that
I thought of a Catholic prayer, "Eternal rest, grant unto them,
O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them."
The ten o'clock sun was bright. Then it was veiled by gray clouds that had travelled from the NorthWest. I had not noticed the
clouds until then. I could see rays emanating from behind the
pewter solidness.
For a moment, I wondered what had happened to that nameless girl. What had been her dreams and ambitions? Had she had
sex? Had she experienced romance? Was she popular? Why had she died?
What about her parents? How did they feel?
And then I stopped myself from wondering. I did not want to
imagine that Clytemnestra grief, that revenging tide of horror
that may not have had a mark to hit. I did not want to hear
that Mystic River scream.
I wanted to walk. That's all. Just walk. I breathed in the air,
cool and crisp like apple cider. Just walk. I swung my cane to
recapture that unhummed Benny Goodman tune. In the distance, I heard the chimes hanging over graves rattle like
bones wanting to move.
I continued my morning walk. On my left, I passed an unburied
coffin. I paused and made the sign of the cross. It waited.
Bronze and cubed, very fancy and patient. "Like a gentleman,"
I thought, "waiting for a room at some high rise, expensive
hotel in New York." The maintenance crew would bring out
the bulldozer to dig out a hole.
The wind blew. The weatherman on television said that the
gusts would be between fifteen and twenty miles an hour.
I felt my eyelids form a slit. Even though I wore thick plastic
lens, I was facing the full force of the Northern wind. Around me
there was movement of leaves rushing. Chimes throughout
the cemetary sounded.
I almost lost my wide brimmed cap. I grabbed it as it began to
lift off my scalp and pulled it on tighter around my head. My head
bowed before the wildness of the wind. It was the only way I
was going to keep my cap.
"De-CAP-itated." I laughed aloud. "Not today.'
I began my stride. "No. Not today." Although the cap was
old enough and had been sweated into enough to have been
discolored from white to an antiqued eggshell. The salt from
my sweat had done its work. Perhaps it was time to get rid
of the cap and buy a new one.
But would I be able to find a wide brimmed white cap worthy of
my head? I despised narrow brimmed caps. To me they were
too masculine. A wide brim not only shielded the the eyes but
my rounded cheeks as well. I lost myself in the dilemma as
I rounded the path.
Ignored by me, the headstones lay silently speaking.
(to be continued)
Dearest 'Nir
