Solitude December 30, 2005
Posted by Duncan Brook in : Memories , add a commentI realize, and then I am running — but running gently, rolling my feet and cushioning every impact as if I am carrying a brimming glass of water. My hair tangles in my face — it tastes vaguely sweet as I spit it out and tilt my head back to let the strands flow behind. Battered by icy gusts, I move forward and begin to sense that peculiar numbness accosting my face, the kind that makes the eyes squint and the nose drip. Looking up, I see the bare branches overhead doing a crazy dance, and I begin to stumble through the underbrush of the forest. It is quiet here, but the leaves crunch obscenely underfoot. The cheerless blue-gray light glowers at me from every angle, and I cannot help but huddle into myself as I sway forward. A dull throbbing has replaced my legs, my mouth is thick, and I cannot swallow between heaves of barren air. Plunging up the incline, I feel the weight of solitude, alone moving through this perfectly still scene.
The clearing is ahead, blurry and wobbly — I am pressing on, ignoring the warm rush of relief, of hope. Forlorn against the backdrop of gray trees and turbulent sky, the decaying cabin looms before me. Stumbling, I batter at the creaking door with the side of my slight body until it grudgingly gives way. Sheltered inside, I can feel my heart pounding, my is breath ragged in the still air, and purple stars are exploding across the cabin’s interior. My legs give way underneath me, and I fall to my knees at the rough table.
From my shaking arms is birthed a quiet form, curled upon itself in final defense. I lay my friend on the uneven planks of the table. Blinking, I smooth the cold, wet, matted fur, and then it is even more wet, and I cannot fight the exhaustion, and I am very, very alone. Salty tears and blood are mixing on the table, and I am fighting the empty despair in my chest, brushing my hair away from the spreading red stain, and there is no point, and I am running again.
Through the drizzle, crashing through the leaves in confused hysteria, I am running.
Back, wet and cold again, numb, I build a fire from the quietly smoldering embers and wait. The tantalizing pain of returning circulation slowly begins to creep across my face as I grow warm, huddled close to the nurturing flame. An eternity of blindly staring into the crumbling logs, rimmed with dancing orange and red, then I find comfort in the soft embrace of dry clothes, pull my hair back, and I am ready. Going back to the table, I linger with my hand on the cold form, icy still, fur slippery and cold underneath my warm fingers. I cannot do this, I cannot take my friend from here outside, but I brace against the void within and go.
Digging, digging hard but I am tired, the roots are in the way, and I just want to stop, wishing somebody else could do it for me. This hole will never be deep enough, but I keep on, and, when I can do no more, I give my quiet companion away.
I go down to the clear pool, gaze at the smooth rocks, and wonder. Tapping my fingers across the glassy surface, I can feel emptiness knotting and unknotting within. I watch the water ripple as I push all of the air out of my chest, and I know that there is nothing left for me to give. I plunge my face and head into the water, then I am blinking back the bite and shaking away droplets of chill, and the world has returned around me, a world of trees and coalescing clouds. Getting up, I gaze into the water and see the shimmering reflection of the sky, now a lighter shade of gray. Inside me I can see, dried and faded, the red pool still there, and I am quiet for a moment.
My reflection dances in the clear water as I step through the crisp leaves underfoot, and I am walking.
