Endings Or Beginnings

Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.

T S Eliot, Wait Without Hope

     I am skimming above the tarmac. Weather, geography, and time are interchangeable in fickle array in my rearview mirror; ahead lies the achievement of a lifetime’s purposeful navigation of fate’s random choices – but that goal will not be realized within this dreamscape.  Of course, all such choices inevitably lead to the same place, so enjoyment of the ride there is of paramount importance.

     I’ve reached the long bend around the building which once housed a youthful jukebox, its call letters lost to memory, which announces the proximity of my family’s landmarks (4 0f them): graves wrapped in memory and mystery.  Each of their headstones lies flat to the ground, lost to the horizon and distinguishable only from immediately above.  Despite their near invisibility, these graves exude a sense of purpose which constantly calls to me, but I do not yet comprehend their message. For now, I am just another visitor there; for now, they are only fodder for my speculations as to whether they are resting places or launchpads.

     I’ve just passed the site of my stepfather’s small ranch. Its general location, but not its actual physical boundaries, is known to me.  Physical boundaries to things other than the graves are irrelevant given the proximity of my road’s end.  I will soon reach the graves and ponder their mysteries there.  The graves are the sole reason I am here despite the initial hail from my rearview mirror that piqued my interest, but I crossed the boundaries of this crucible’s real-life analog long ago, so I will concentrate on graves and eternity and mysteries during this trip.

     When I do eventually reach the graves, I know that I will be met by silence and mixed messages.  Their boundaries suggest that the physical remains within are now of the earth that surrounds them. But the lights those remains once contained, what do the graves have to say about them?  That is the question to which I always listen for an answer whenever and however I visit, but none is ever forthcoming. Their collective silence is relentless in its refusal to answer, somewhat haughty in its denial.

     So, while I wait for an answer, my road must suffice.

About Gavin Stevens

Humptulips County is the wholly fictional on-line residence of Stephen Ellis, a would-be writer, an avid fan of William Faulkner and his Yoknapatawpha County, and a retired lawyer.
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