And thence, to OVERCOME!

a short story

The withering grass did not withhold the secrets of time’s distain for truth. Brown leaves bent in angles unbefitting of a garden — roses not bloomed in time for joy. Martha held her breath as the fire from the forest overtook the last remaining land she knew, and wept silently, holding her infant between the life they once knew and the one yet to be had.

Memories of childhood lined the walls of the now-consumed house. Memories which one need to be reminded of. Isn’t it funny, she thought, how many things you need a picture of in order to recall that fact, that event. Sometimes things happen in such a way that no external object becomes necessary for recollection; and sometimes, a picture is all that’s required in order to want to forget. And, she thought, it seems all that you wish to forget are the only things which you remember. And she wanted to forget this day. This particular time in this particular way, she wished she had never known. Standing before the flames of a fire to which she knew all was destined anyway. She understood that this destruction must happen to each in his own way, in time befitting of the particular life. Each life built must by itself collapse withal. And then she held her baby close.

The news of the destruction spread through the countryside. The withered grass did not slow the rumors of pain. Distraught with fear which might be said to paralyze, she did not move quickly. Passersby carried thoughts and prayers for her, and she knew of their intention. But her own intention was never enough, why bother for someone else’s? When the will of her own heart did not speak to the depths of her being (clouded, surely, through past adventures into unknown lands) why would she desire the will of another to speak to her depravity, now, in this time, and in this way? To where or to whom could she turn but towards herself, now that even this was something wholly new, completely different? Herself, the stranger, the friend, and the lover — each at the same moment.

Her life had been captured and captivated in postcard form. Sending distress signals through barometric readings of the weather: rain today meant crying, sun tomorrow meant weeping, and snow in the future meant hibernation. But now she had nowhere to hibernate, nowhere to turn, and even the tears she once cried had dried up as the news continued to spread. Her own mailing address became a figment of the imaginatory space she travelled through so very often. Now, she had made it her home.

She decided to walk. And that was that. Nowhere else to go, she would make a non-location her locale, and she would rejoice! Now, transmuted, rain meant peace. Heaven, almost, became the sun’s message, with snow equaling ravishment. “O, to walk into the snow, and thence to become a snow angel! And thence, to…” well, what else would be left to do, but land upon a new page of life. “And thence, to… overcome. And thence (yes!) to overcome! And thence, to OVERCOME!”