|in our final chapter the grass burned red; the moon had grown teeth that gnashed and rattled nervously against a fraying sky; the sun dimmed to a specter of itself, became a ghastly spectator, appeared as a stranger’s eye at a keyhole. this is what we wrote into our afterword as our story drew to a close. it’s what i saw in your afterworld the last time you called my name and asked me what it meant to be true to oneself. with the conviction of youth, i asserted there was no such thing as a true self, that it was all self-invention, fabrication, mumbo jumbo; i barreled through crappy analogies, likening individual life to a small wind through a void, a sound that resonates briefly and is then resigned to silence, no longer singular — and i saw your eyes in that moment. some essential part of you was lost. fin. end of story. close the book.
if we were to rewrite this conversation. if you were to ask me again, “what does it mean to be true to oneself?” i would answer honestly. that i don’t know. then i would say your name — maybe once, maybe fifty times over — and tell you, “this is who you are, someone worth saving.” and maybe that would recall you back to yourself. because a name spoken with love is a glittering mote in the fog, a charmed note that breaks a sad spell. you gave me the joy of being named and recognized by another human being; i should have done the same for you.
in a restless world like this is
posted by susie on Saturday, November 3, 2012, at 12:52 am. Both comments and trackbacks are currently closed.