“Is it a signal?” she said softly, “or is it for us?” It is both, I thought in silence, this is to warn, and prepare. I took my friend’s hand and we walked away. We knew we were not wanted. The warning was clear. Everywhere we would go in the country, it would be the same, and one evening…
None of us was amnesiac. We knew full well how it would end. There was a long tradition. From time to time we would lit a bonfire, but most of the time the fires were lit to burn us. Us, witches.
Through the snow, through the pixelated mist of our lives, I see him. Writing about him – only the antlers prevent me to say “her” – is another story: precisely.
Inspiration is like this vision, looking back at us, shrouded in doubt, shying away from the obvious, a myth. The stag will soon disappear, absorbed by the shadows, by the blank page. Alone, the white flakes of memory will, briefly, lit our darkness.
It is not so far, where we met for the first time, when we were incredibly young, and so ignorant.
Not so far in distance from here, but in time, we dare not say. We know, much have changed around us, everywhere.
Except us.
Wiser we are, and so much stronger.
We’ve lost tracks of all those years, for we live for the present: ghosts we might be, but the happy sort,
as we have each other, for evermore.
“I know where we are, we walked this path many times. Was it yesterday? It was summer still, and yet you see: today the ground is hard frozen, how can this be? ”
“My love, you are confused. We’ve travelled a long time, this place is not that you recognise, we are far away from home, a long way away from summer…”
“What are you telling me? Are we lost? How can we be now in winter?”
“We have to rest. You see, we have what it takes to survive, this far North, and we must keep warm.”
“Insane”, did you say? Yes, I agree, who wants to wander, alone, half naked, in this desolate landscape, other than a madman? But I am on a journey, probably a long journey. “Where are you going?” could you ask, but you won’t.
I want to find them all, all the ghosts, the people I met, once, some I knew, others I loved. There are others too, whose names I never knew, but somehow I can remember. They are all long gone, and I want to find them, to see them a last time. I am sure they are still around, and, perhaps like me, they are wandering, looking. It’s a natural thing to wish, I think, to retrace our steps, to try and meet the long gone shadows of other beings who crossed our lives.
“But”, I hear you argue: “who cares, and why?”
Why should I care? Because life is short, because there are now so few of us still alive, still thinking. There are witnesses, of course, trees, rocks, animals… Sadly we have lost the art of talking with them.
So it is, and I go, keep going, on this journey, until I too disappear in a little cloud.
You are now so close: and you know I am waiting.
The certainty to find me, at the end of this road, your destination.
You know, all that time I have been waiting, since the day, that day, when you left.
Many pages I wrote since then. Many books I read. Many cities I travelled to.
Many others I met.
Yet I too was certain: one day you would walk this tree-lined road, to find me.
Alas, much I have changed, as I know you have.
All these years, away, without each other.
And now, the end of the road, our destination.
Once we walked along this shore, through these dunes, you and I, hand in hand, when the world was young.
Now, our children stand tall and strong, and they and their mates look just like us, as we were.
So you see, dear love, despite all the mistakes, sometime the doubts, we saw through our future with much clarity, as the waves told us we would, once, there, along this shore, long ago.
I know, you’re hesitating. For good reasons. It looks familiar, the small neat garden, the lavender, the path that leads to the ancient door… Yet, there is something different, or has something changed? You look at the old stones, at the bench, yes the bench, where you used to sit, next to him, waiting for nightfall. Someone still looks after the garden, and it’s not him.
If he were still there, he would be in front of you, welcoming you, welcoming you back. Or would he? After all, much time has passed, much has happened. You haven’t counted the years, of course not. You just know something has changed.
But, perhaps, it’s you? If he were there, at the gate, would you still see him? Would you acknowledge him? Now, look: you’re staying in the shadow, why? You know this place, you were once happy here, weren’t you?
Ha, I see… yes, I understand why you hesitate. You know why he’s not here. You know full well. And now, I am afraid. I am beginning to understand who you really are. Are you inviting me to sit, on the bench, waiting for nightfall? Are you moving me back, to where you were, to where he was… to where I am now?
rocks, oregano, carburetor
She remembered the place well: the towers, the kids in the stairs, the smell of pizza and oregano he loved to bake in the kitchen.
In her dream she could see the glass of Jack Daniels, on the rocks, his favourite drink. And the day the kids stole the carburettor of his bike, parked down below, in the courtyard.
Those were the days.
Picture: Bing-Gleichdruckvergaser an einer BMW Strich-Fünf, ca. 1973. This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license. Author: Johannes Maximilian
velvet, cloud, hippie
Late in the day, emerging from his grass cloud, the ageing hippie saw you, asleep, as you once were, on the velvet pastel of the pool.
