They sat in a semi-circle on the grass. One child on It’s lap looking up into the hooded void. The whole scene set like something from The Children’s Bible. Lambs running about, a few bunnies and field mice. There was a stone well nearby with a wooden bucket on a rope. The Great Scythe was leaning against a tree, the blade like a mirror, polished and glistening.
Glancing up from their glowing screens
– mom and dad nod goodbye to the kids.
…
Many of us had gathered on the beach. I saw what appeared to be an article of clothing, perhaps a coat drifting toward shore. To my dismay, upon approaching I realized it was a body. A woman with short white hair. She was exceptionally tall. Neither young nor old. Swell of sea. She rolled over. Her eyes were bright and clear and she was not dead at all. She spoke with a soft and pure authority. Behind her others began to appear, a procession rising from the waves. They had questions is what she said.
We gathered in a circle. All of us. To answer questions that did not need to be spoken. It was up to me to explain, but as I began we could only weep. We looked into one another’s eyes and wept in sorrow.
Sometimes sitting still, disappearing, I recall the experience of Time as a child.
In the quiet living room drinking a cup of coffee before the start of a busy day I remember; I wanted to be liked, win the race, be a superhero and Lipton soup salesman like my dad. Nothing was crucial. But I could drown in the shower or die in the dark. Something was always under the bed. I believed in God and my parents and that everything would be alright. It was just my imagination.
And I was not responsible.
Dancing on Frozen Beaver Ponds 