Remembering Cormac McCarthy
I always enjoy reading Adam Miller's take.
Here is my take on—I think my thinking actually converged with Adam’s
Where Are We Now?
Eli stood at the field’s edge. A fencewire stitching the dark.
The question from the book. Where do we go when we die?
Wind in the grass. No answer.
A door in Vegas. Just a door.
The stone weight on his chest. A woman’s hand in the desert. Words not for him.
The courtroom. The gavel’s crack. The blank page.
His wife’s hands. Her kiss. She made room for a ghost.
A rock he was told of. Never seen.
His father’s notebook. The porchlight. The door standing open.
He looked at his hands. Old. Clean. Marked.
Where are we now?
Here. In the field. In what we carry. In the story told to bear the one that is not. In the light that dims and the light that returns.
The dead are gone. The living hold them.
He turned. A light in the kitchen window. The door open.
Still shining.
McCarthy gives us a taste of what it's like to wander through the wilderness, to experience great hardship and loss, and yet, nevertheless, in our wandering to find grace in a cold drink of water or a tortilla.
I always enjoy reading Adam Miller's take.
Here is my take on—I think my thinking actually converged with Adam’s
Where Are We Now?
Eli stood at the field’s edge. A fencewire stitching the dark.
The question from the book. Where do we go when we die?
Wind in the grass. No answer.
A door in Vegas. Just a door.
The stone weight on his chest. A woman’s hand in the desert. Words not for him.
The courtroom. The gavel’s crack. The blank page.
His wife’s hands. Her kiss. She made room for a ghost.
A rock he was told of. Never seen.
His father’s notebook. The porchlight. The door standing open.
He looked at his hands. Old. Clean. Marked.
Where are we now?
Here. In the field. In what we carry. In the story told to bear the one that is not. In the light that dims and the light that returns.
The dead are gone. The living hold them.
He turned. A light in the kitchen window. The door open.
Still shining.
McCarthy gives us a taste of what it's like to wander through the wilderness, to experience great hardship and loss, and yet, nevertheless, in our wandering to find grace in a cold drink of water or a tortilla.
Where Are We Now?
Eli stood at the field’s edge. A fencewire stitching the dark.
The question from the book. Where do we go when we die?
Wind in the grass. No answer.
A door in Vegas. Just a door.
The stone weight on his chest. A woman’s hand in the desert. Words not for him.
The courtroom. The gavel’s crack. The blank page.
His wife’s hands. Her kiss. She made room for a ghost.
A rock he was told of. Never seen.
His father’s notebook. The porchlight. The door standing open.
He looked at his hands. Old. Clean. Marked.
Where are we now?
Here. In the field. In what we carry. In the story told to bear the one that is not. In the light that dims and the light that returns.
The dead are gone. The living hold them.
He turned. A light in the kitchen window. The door open.
Still shining.