My head is bowed, and my eyes are full. The campfire has dwindled, and the aroma of smoke will haunt me, yes, but the fire has grown cold, the child old, and orange goes to gray, and gray goes to white, and we quit—we are snuffed, and the tops of the ear-piercing trees are arctic echoes, and I an artifact. The fog concedes, and I go.
This again and again, and I cannot escape it—I recall a red sports car speeding blue on wide-set train tracks before careening off a horizonless cliff, and I bark, defenseless. The police are already on the scene, and a brawny cop waits for me to clamber down the muddy culvert, and there we are, he, I, and a tiny body bag. What could you fit in there? What kind of life? It is time to find out.
You don’t want to see this, the starched blue suit says, crouching, his badge stone-faced. This peacekeeper has seen his fair share, and for me, now, he radiates benign mindfulness—I am sure the rest of it, the soil of his day and all of him that remains, prowls dark corners as his uniform recuperates in the closet. Carnage calms the pulse after a time. I match his energy level—I am flat.
I do, I said, do it. It’s time to face it. I could not be closer to the ground.
He unzips the bag, about the size of a shoe box, pulls out a yellowed polaroid, and looks for confirmation. I catch a glimpse of mangled remains, familiar and so young. The churning rivers that run beneath us lead to a calm blue sea. He would say that often, and I would nod, thinking I had said it.
Did you say something? Is it him?
Yes, that’s him, I say, backpedaling, and the terror sets in. I realize then that three minus one is two and two minus one leaves only me. Now. The rest are dead, waiting, but gone. So for the rest of this walk, I walk alone. I cannot wish it away.
I rode in that red sports car.
I was not driving.
I ejected early.
For safety’s sake.
But now it is time to summon old dread.
And follow the trail of ash.
I lift the swaying, long-handled ladle, an antique nail its rightful place—where we left it, and deeply I dip into the bulging rain barrel, fat, still, clear, sweet water, and I drink, and he looks up from the rippling dark, pleased to see me. How much rain have I missed? It is so quiet here amongst myself, my belongings, my longings and my leaving, my welcoming, and my feet, especially content that I have stopped, with no further to walk now that I am home.