557. Glints of Gold

Von stood facing the tree. Slowly, from the bottom upward, he buttoned his black cloak. A breeze rustled the leaves in the tree and a few more took flight, glints of gold in the blue sky.

The interrogator stood before Von and read from his dossier. Finishing one document, he took the page and tossed it over his shoulder and read from the next. Then tossed it likewise, charge after charge, accusation after accusation until the floor was littered as the ground in autumn. As the heavens itself takes pause between breath of wind, the javalina breathed in before expelling, in words matter of fact, "You abandoned your son."

Decadent Reflections

For those who might like to peak behind the curtain

Decadent Reflections

556. Clinquant: Stagecraft

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As Stay plays (soundtrack to Clinquant), the camera focuses on Von sitting on the bench, from a distance. The volume increases, the camera zooms in for a close up, his deep blue eyes are tear filled, staring straight ahead, his head not moving. The lyrics, the female voice, bring visions of Zoe to his mind and it seems as if she is reaching out to him, that it is she who is singing. The camera lifts and whirls around him as the leaves around the tree, his black cloak upon the bed of golden leaves, the stone chapel in the background. The screen fades to black with the lyrics growing louder, cutting, stay with me.

555. Clinquant

Outside the chapel stood a single large grandfather of a tree and, as if planted for reflection or adoration, a slatted wooden bench. From a cloudless blue sky, a light breeze coaxed medallion leaves, golden and brown, into the air and, in their lazy childlike way, flitting and twirling to the deep fescue below; a treasure hard to dismiss or miss. Yet, sitting, watching, listening, breathing, the choice echoed, each wave more surreal as the leaves appeared as memories, falling, inevitably, one by one. The cruel cycle forever clear to the rustic eye.

Upon the ethereal lightness of confession offered and absolution given, from what seemed like hours if not days instead of mere minutes, dispassionate words hung heavy as damp decaying soil. Back curved to bench, another breeze, more medallions took flight, each a child, each a choice, each as free as will. Zoe was dying he had said. Why, he did not know, would not know in time. The baby was healthy. He, he said he, the baby, would survive a premature birth. Permission was needed. Zoe would not survive the operation. The baby, the boy, would not survive without it.

Another leaf corkscrewed downward. The ground a treasure of nature's gold gathered around his leaden feet, expectant, looking up. A performance anticipated, action desired.

554. Alterity

The door was unlocked and the cottage, although empty, felt smaller, the air, dust mote quiet. You can't prove a negative nor can you find a note not left behind. Trev looked with one eye, the other fixed firmly on guilt, the kind of guilt that wanted to find a note and equally did not. At least he could admit it.

553. Dysphoria

When one is alone and wet and cold, and the distance between foot and cottage is not the distance feared, one has thoughts, some heavy like old iron, others light as hummingbirds and still some like the wasp. With a real wasp, one can run or one can swat, or if stung, one knows a life was given in the act. But when the wasp is inside and the sting within, well, one has thoughts best not shared.

I played in my mind what I would say. Then I played it again and I knew, what sounded so good in my imagination would remain as separate from the act as the play from the audience, as the reader from the book, as the ink from the idea. So, I took all my words and I kicked them before me as the rocks before my raisined toes, my anger shielding the pain, for what could a toe know of the woe of heart, the rend of soul, the dull ache of mind turned on itself.

The night air was warm and humid and I breathed the fire of salt into my dry nostrils and the burning brought tears to my eyes, salt to salt as dust to dust. That's when I saw a sight I will never forget and felt a burning in my failed lungs. Like that, they were gone and for all the running and yelling I might as well have been in a dream. The cottage was not the same and the emptiness of wall was but a pond to the empty ocean of my heart.

552. Important and Urgent

Wearing his customary pristine white tunic, hair disheveled in a turbulent sea of grey swells and shimmering whitecaps, face warm bronze to match hands aged and weathered in the love of all things outdoors, shoulders symmetrically sloped displaying the strength and beauty of mountains in winter, Zeke listened with the patience of the sparkling ocean that glittered before his pale blue eyes. He leaned back, wooden chair kissing wooden desk like timid children out of teacher's sight, while the voice on the other end of the line spoke of matters important and urgent.

Questions sat, not asked. Just talking and listening. What the hellocks could be said that had not already been said? Words had been poured forth from father to son as water to stone. Familiarity bred not contempt, but accepted weariness, the kind of weariness that existed between husband and wife in the morning when love was a memory long faded and questions of endearment no longer offered nor expected. So the questions just sat, unopened, ignored, gifts forever unknown.

When the call ended, Zeke stood, drawing breath of brass and bergamot, wood old and leather worn; his hands held behind his back, softly, one into the other, fist into palm like ball into glove. He looked upon the waters of Valla as if in the looking a sign or signal would appear, and he could take his hands and do something. To do something to hold at bay thoughts of what had been done and, thoughts be damned, what had not. Take what you want, then pay for it. Is that how it is? Reluctant, with belly full, to pay for the meal. Blame the cook need only a mirror.

His son had succeeded, at work. Won prestigious awards, stood in the world on his own merits, had married and had two beautiful children, Kyra and Emily. Something changed when Emily died. He withdrew. Episodic bursts of anger as unpredictable as infrequent. His wife looked on with dead eyes, leaden tongue, their marriage held together by professional ambition; and the storm.

They had chosen Emily over Kyra, second born over first. Had taken her with them on their travels. Said that Kyra's schooling was the reason she was left behind. Damn the lies, the pretense. Parents tended to favor one child over the other, but the art of parenting was never to let either child know which was which. Perhaps he succeeded. Kyra never questioned or if she did, never gave voice to the doubt. Yet, still, the child seemed, at times, melancholy beyond her summers. What do we ever really know of the inner life of another, forever sifting clues and forming assumptions, drawing conclusions, forgetting that what we know pales in comparison to what we don't.

The call talked of things important and urgent. The planet was in peril. Changes had to happen now. Those in power were in denial. Zeke listened. Not once was the question asked. How is Kyra?

__________

A few years earlier . . .

"Papa," asked Kyra, "why are you crying?"

"When I see you, I see the most beautiful thing in the whole world and the joy from my heart expresses itself through my eyes."

"Is that why Grand is crying too?"

Papa looked over his shoulder, his beautiful bride leaning against the worn door frame, her hand wiping her nose. "Yes, Kyra," she said.

"Can I cry too?"


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