Hubris. Not of Shakespearean proportions, but hubris nonetheless. I wanted to surprise and please the Secretary by progressing without her, but in doing so I had broken the thread of her council. I let myself be distracted by memory and imagination- major components in accomplishing my own work, paramount in my own process, yet the key to my undoing.
I sadly realized that by placing myself in the center and not the far side of the circle, I had forgotten the prime directive. It was now important that I remove myself from the position of narrator and become the observer. Disheartened, I left the anorak on the bed, put on my jacket and went to the breakfast room. There were to-go cups behind the bar; I poured some coffee, wrapped two thick slices of brown bread in a napkin and slipped them in my pocket. I took the elevator down and slowly walked to the Cemetery, careful not to spill my coffee.
I wondered if the Secretary was disappointed in me, and how I would atone.
There was silence everywhere, as if silence was its own sound. The statue was not there. I was half hoping to miraculously find it returned, but the patch where she had stood remained bare. Somewhere back home, wherever home is, there is in a black archival box with several Polaroids of the statue, and close ups of the boy and the roses at her feet. I knew I could simply conjure the box in my mind and spread the pictures before me like tarot cards, but I didn’t. I sat in the spot where the statue had stood and sipped my coffee that was still quite warm and unwrapped the bread, thinking of nothing.
Before long I noticed that the trees lining the path and the surrounding headstones were shimmering and appeared colorless, yet somewhat silvery. My hand and the cup had the same tone, as if all was a living photograph, or a three-dimensional diorama of a photograph. In another time I would have leapt to my feet with my camera, attempting to capture the unusual and stirring light, but again I did nothing.
I sat quietly, and did not ruminate nor weave the experience into the first lines of a poem. I felt completely empty, yet oddly content. I thought to toss some bread for the birds, but there were no birds, nor the sound of birds. There was no sound of rustling leaves, or traffic beyond. My hands were suddenly cold. It’s time to go, I was thinking. And as I rose I realized with gratitude that it was snowing.
Create your
podcast in
minutes
It is Free