Parting, Severance

A figure walks in profile, North, along a raised train track, while in the background the sky does its nightly miracle and rolls its way to sunset. That dance is nearly over. Indigo and Navy compete for the space above, and a breeze just turned cool curls up the hair in light puffs. A cooling ember greater than any mountain slips behind the mother's belly, and the day rushes on with it. No sound now, not even a faint crunch from the rhythmic steps of the figure who travels to an undecided destination. Neither home nor home away from home, nor yet again to the new for the sake of freshness, but just for the sake of travel. The hike began while the sun had not yet reached its apex, in a moment of desperation for connexion with that which lies beyond an insulated and humdrum life. Eventually the feet, their impact soundless on the rocks of the railbed, lead away down the East side of the hill, into the starry spaces and shadows of deeper quiet between slumbering derelict warehouses, through the soft galaxy of leaves and streetlamp globes, where a million insects lazily ply their sails up and down through the waterless, dusty air. Then to a house, steps' paint faded, porch boards battened without a crack or creak, a singing hinge hums in the still empty abandonment of autumn night, and with a click on oiled hinges the lumbering wooden door closes.

At the beginning of High Summer, when cicadas and grasshoppers and crickets and every bee and hornet buzzes and chirps its life, proclaiming vitality into the cacophony of likewise thunderstuck and overawed living beings shouting their exuberance for sheer existence, another more massive group of beings celebrates its passage through a seemingly unending life process with a time honored tradition. No end to the future fortold could seem real at this moment of beginnings. A heavy robe over the body, a hat centuries out of fashion, a plodding speech in afternoon sun, a walk, a grasping of hands and forearms and bits of paper and smiles and eyes locking only for a moment and a toss and finally hugs and flashes of bulbs and goodbyes, goodbyes, goodbyes. A promise, this is, a shaky, naive, foolish, idealistic, sun-blind grasping at straws in a universe that favors none. Each signals to the others that they will stay in touch; they don't know what that means. Here is the last celebration; here is a gift for work well done; here is a synchronous affirmation of shared experience and togetherness; here is the end of togetherness. Here is a passing into loneliness and indirection. Here is the doorway to indecision and improvisation. Here is the passage into the realization of inadequacy and failure. This is the exit, this is burden, this is escape, this is enslavement, this is freedom, this is a fall from height, this is drowning at sea, this is sweat without reward. It's unfinished business, it's abandonment, it's neverending.

Here's a familiar scene; you know it from the picture-shows. A date between Bobby and Susie, his car, her home, parked outside in the dark--the light is on by her front door. They're talking and it's been good. They're developing a friendship, and a more carnal attraction. Finally it's time for her to go. Susie makes no invitation for "coffee." Bobby knows she doesn't want or need his help to walk fifty feet to the door. There are steps in front of the door, and Susie turns as she reaches the top. Her hand is in her purse, fishing for keys. Bobby has started the engine. He's been watching her walk, though. As she turns she catches sight of him. There's a tiny quirk of smile in the corner of her mouth, though Bobby can't see it because of the shadow cast by the doorlight. He's in deeper shade still, inside the car, thought the windows are down because it's spring and it's finally warm enough. She's wearing a dress that's just a shade too fancy for real life, while a shade to light and clinging for the season. He's got his eyes fixed on her body as she mounts the stairs, travelling up, and they reach her face just as the turns. Bobby has a smile, not small, content but anticipatory; he will call. She's got shining eyes whose color is too deep to be believed, whose sparkle is too true to be put on; she wants him to call. Susie's eyes look right at where she knows Bobby's face will be, and find it there, and find his eyes staring back. Their gazes crackle on contact. Suddenly she turns again with a tiny bounce, fits the key quickly into the lock and spins the knob, and flashes inside. They sigh and relax, and float to bed.