Dear Khodayar, the wind and the rain has scoured your camp.
And now, in these dragonfly days, the sun beats down on a burnt patch of grass.
We keep your camp clean, with flowers in it. I don’t know who the others are
but I see the things they leave for you at the tree or in the burnt circle.
So the camp is ready for you if you can ever come back, or in
case someone else needs to use it. Each time I go there I look for anything
there that might have come from you. I look at the dried, dead flowers and at
the dappled patterns that the shadows of the leaves make. What are you now
Khodayar? Are you a shadow or are you the marks left by flames? Your name and
your story is left here with us. I am stuck half way between a mouthful of
words and nothing at all; between a lifetime of experience and an empty camp.
I circle the camp to find new perspectives. I find some
C.F.A. tape tied in a tree near the walking path. It shows the way to the fire
with which you cut your life. You won’t come back. Love Stephen
No comments:
Post a Comment