Everything Changes

Everything Changes This won’t go on. I can’t keep acting like this. Something will be wrong with it. There will be a problem. It won’t work. It won’t pass. All I can say is “No.” All I can be is negative. I’m getting hysterical. I’m breathing faster. I’m not calm. I’m not satisfied. I’m afraid it will all disappear. What I’m afraid will disappear is what I feel, how I feel. How I am afraid it will disappear, is that it will disappear in the same way as my enthusiasm for the Good fight. If that was wrong, might this be also? Can I ever do what I ought to? Am I foolish to act like I’ve never known what I ought to? Should I know? Have I made a mistake? All of this, I say to Kate. We’re at the beautiful place, and it is beautiful indeed. It’s a hill. There are a couple of trees around us, one on the side, one almost center on the top. We’re under the tree on the side, dressed for cold weather, and--believe it or not--sharing a thick blanket. We’re looking out on the twilight sky, a severe orange, stenciled with clouds. An extraordinary sight. The breeze is chilled, normally a chore to breath after a while, however, this evening, I don’t mind. She says, “You’re being honest with yourself. You’re not holding back.” I say, “I feel fake.” The leafless limbs above our heads flutter about in the wind. We’ve cleared an oval sitting spot, and are quite cozy. There’s something interesting about having only your head and face exposed to the cold, while the rest is bundled up. She says, “Me too.” “You walked out. You survived till now.” “Only because he fled. If he hadn’t . . . I wouldn’t have been ready . . . I didn’t plan the lights to come on. It wasn’t a tale for the ages.” Somewhere I can’t see, water trickles. The scene wouldn’t be right without that flowing water, and I am grateful for it. Also out of sight, the light crunching of leaves and twigs. Life everywhere. She says, “You’re helping me. You’re going to help me find him.” I say, “When?” She does something with her lips, and says, “We’re distracted, but it’s a decision we made.” From our hill, I can see many others in the distance. Rolling hills of yellow-green grass, evergreen trees as sharp as ever, and even further, the gray outline of mountains, massive and foreboding like giant tidal waves. Cue the water flow; the animal footfalls; the cold breeze; the sunset. We’re sitting in the audience of an epic symphony. “We’re cut loose,” she says, “and we just need to get used to making our own decisions, and not second guess them to the point of paralyzation.” I say, “I don’t think I’m cut yet.” “You are.” But I don’t even know . . . If she understands what I mean by “future soldier” or by “Good cause,” because, have I ever explained it to her out loud? She says, “We’re going to soak this evening up, and tomorrow, we’re going to look for him. And we’re going to do it together.” Something to look forward to. She says, “I still get that weighty feeling when I look at all this. It never went away when he left, like he said it would. He didn’t come up with this, and he was never keeping it going. I learned pretty quick after I left our house, that I was just a part of it. That’s what we are. We don’t have to like it; we just have to understand it. And you know . . . I like it.” I let out a “Hmm.” She says, “Because if we can look at the things we share this place with, and it all comes together to be so beautiful, what’s to say they’re not looking back at us, where we’re blended together with everything else, and saying ‘how beautiful.’” I suppose she’s being honest with herself, and not holding back. It’s getting dark soon. But I realize, if we spent our time worrying about how to see when the light disappears, we’ll miss how incredible the actual disappearing turns out to be. So we sit still, quiet, allowing the scenery to wash over our senses. And as the fiery sky fades from orange to red, red to violet, violet to black, I feel moist, warm air against my cheek. I turn slightly, and find a familiar face. Quite familiar. I turn fully to meet it, and everything changes . . .