This is the beginning of something, I don’t know just what. But that’s a good thing because arrogant assumptions of knowledge about what anything’s for always lead astray. Maybe this post will be here tomorrow, maybe it will be gone. I don’t quite know yet what the purpose of this blog will be (except to write, and perhaps be heard by somebody) but if you stumble in through some portal and find this writing, perhaps you can tell me why it’s here. . .
My mother, a long long time ago:
When do we come to the time, the place, when we say: “who was this person? Did I ever know her? Did she know me?” So very strange, to travel back to a time when I was not; to poke my head up, rippling that soft still water like an otter, look around in that foriegn place, and be unseen, unknown, and yet to know: this is flesh of which my flesh was born, bone from which my bone was born, and she was called woman. And now the chords have been played, the sound has faded, and she is not— and yet I am. How can this all be? It is too strange to contemplate.
And the other half. . .
of the gene pool. My father at 18. The US was not yet at war. It was a softer time, then, or so it looks from everything anyone ever told me. He came from a “comfortable” background. Not wealthy by any stretch, but comfortable enough. Who was he? I see the slightest germ of myself in his face, his eyes. Did I ever really know him? Cynic, scoffer at anything spiritual, with a religious faith in hard sciences. His last word to me, as I sat by his deathbed, spoken as clearly as if his stroke had never happened, was Miracle. What did he see? I will wonder till the day I die, but more than that, I wonder, “who was he?”
And who am I?