Month: October 2016

You wouldn’t have wanted me to do this, I’m sure. You were always so optimistic. Even in those final days, you still tried to get me to smile, to laugh. And I did. But who is there to get me to smile now?

So today… Today I will do something. If there is a god in heaven—and how can there be otherwise since He sent you to me—I must trust that He is merciful. I must trust that He knows my weaknesses, and that He will forgive me.

So here I am on our back porch, shotgun on my knee. I’m switching the safety off.

I remember you as I first met you, with golden hair, sparkling green eyes, and the most radiant smile I had ever seen. I never dared dream that I would be waking to that smile for the next fifty years, but even at first meeting, I knew those eyes would never leave me.

Ah, those eyes. I remember when we went to Ireland for your friend’s wedding. I had heard it called the Emerald Isle, but all the green of Ireland couldn’t compare to your breathtaking eyes.

And that hair—spun gold like straw fresh off Rumpelstiltskin’s spinning wheel. It didn’t last much longer than my own unruly mop, but even when your gold turned to silver, you were still as beautiful and radiant as the sun.

I remember that radiance when I sit at a table suddenly much too large, sleep in a bed much too cold, live in a house much too empty. How can I help but remember, when every corner of every room is filled to overflowing with you? We built this home together—brick by brick, memory by memory. How can I stay in it alone?

I almost never cook now. I used to love cooking, but then, I always had someone to cook for. Somehow it rarely seems like it’s worth the effort anymore.

I know what you would say. You would tell me to get up and do something. You would tell me to go for a walk or paint or fish or garden. You would tell me to try a new restaurant or read a book or go see the fall leaves.

But I’ve tried all those things, and I remain empty inside. No, not just empty, but incomplete. All these years I’ve been part of a “we.” A beautiful, wonderful “we.” And I can’t go back to being an “I.”

So I raise my gun.

 

And lower it again. Put the safety back on. Set down the gun. My hands are trembling.

I rub the wooden armrest of the porch swing, worn by the years, and looking at the empty seat next to me, I can almost see you there, reading. I look out at the yard, covered with leaves ready for the raking, and can almost hear your feet crunching the leaves underfoot. I feel a sharp gust of wind and can almost smell the scent of your apple pie, tantalizingly close to being cool enough to eat carried on the breeze.

And I know I can’t do it. I can’t leave all this behind.

There are tears running down my cheeks and I don’t know why. I desperately want to see you again, but not right now, not this way.

I hope my time comes soon. I miss you terribly. But for now, it’s starting to get dark, and it’s about time I start cooking dinner.

Far away from any city, in a land dominated by mountain peaks and inhabited largely by goats is a small valley. Completely surrounded by inhospitable mountains, this valley is nevertheless, by some miracle of earth or heaven, a fertile place. A small river runs through the valley before disappearing underground, and there is a grove of wild apple trees. Largely isolated, this vale has few visitors. However, tucked away in this mountainous Eden, there is a building.

Some of the few who know of the valley say that this small wooden structure is as old as the mountains surrounding it—older—and that the mountains themselves are nothing more than a garden wall erected by whatever god first built it. Others say that the humble construction is the house made by our first parents before they left the valley or were driven therefrom. What all agree upon is the building’s ancient origin. Indeed, this solitary structure has been in the valley for as long as the collective memory of song and story.

Whatever the building was when it was first framed, it is now a shrine. The few scattered tribes who know the valley call it holy, and to them the shrine is more—a holy of holies. Every spring for the equinox, the local tribes come together to the valley, where they make sacrifices and celebrate together. They fix whatever damage the shrine has incurred over the past year, and they coat all the beams with a lacquer to prevent future wear. Then, on the night of the equinox, the oldest elder among them enters the shrine. From within a secret hiding place within the shrine, he withdraws a scroll and, standing upon the porch of the shrine, reads aloud from the scroll to all assembled.

The contents of the scroll are marvelous, for this scroll is but one volume of a vast book, each volume of which tells all of the events of a year. The scroll which the elder reads is that of the year which is to come. As the elder reads, all which is to come until the next spring equinox is revealed. He then carefully hides the scroll away and leaves the shrine for another year.

When the elder has finished his reading, a great feast is held, and all assembled drink deeply. As the night wears on, all in the valley grow weary from their revelry and fall into a deep sleep. When they have awoken, then, the events of the previous night, including the reading of the scroll, seem little more than a dream. Their annual ceremony done, the tribes scatter to their individual stretches of mountain.

Some may wonder why, after hearing of the events of the coming year, the people then engage in such revelry as to forget most of it. Many stories are devoted to explaining this. One is about a pair of brothers who were prophesied to kill each other and did so over the revelation. Another story tells about a couple who heard about a mild winter and so didn’t prepare enough.

However, by far the most common explanation is wrapped up in what the tribes round about call the book itself. For among them it is referred to as the Book of Lies. It may seem strange that a book telling all things in history should bear such an appellation. Certainly it might be said that such a book contains more truths than any other. However the tribes name the book not because they disbelieve its words, but for a deeper reason:

The people of these mountains hold to one belief above all others: that no one story can tell the whole truth. And that a book, no matter how complete, can never fully capture what is real. This makes the Book of Lies, by its seeming completeness, more dangerous and, in a way, less truthful than any others.

And yet, they still cannot reject such a sacred gift. So they do what they can: they learn, and then they forget.