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I want to tell the story. But— there is no approaching this, strange crux of everything. Come at it sideways. Come at it from the edge. Picture, then, a hardscrabble patch of land. Rocks. An olive tree. Sparse, straggling desert grass. The rocks have been waiting. The wind has been waiting. The living souls nearby sleep through the whole thing. (This is important. I have slept through many things.) And then— What can be known? There has never been any moment more private nor more public. So. What I know: the screaming windy cliff of unavoidable onus, the weight of what must be done. For me, it was the abyss of being about to give birth. The way the self shrinks to a pinpoint in a vacuum, the way one becomes lost, faceless, the way the thought that there is another soul depending on you can pull you inside out and through to a new place. But of course even in that, my most impossible moment, he was already there, having been there before me. Oh, how is a human to comprehend godly heartbreak? Might as well teach a point on a line about temples and spires, about stars. It's a matter of dimension: impossible geometry. What we know: he went to a place. He knew that ahead of him was a pain yet unknown in the world, extra-dimensional. That seeing it, he, who had maybe never known fear before this, asked to be excused, but not really. We know: the contemplation of that pain was so terrible it required the ministration of an angel before it could be approached. We know: at point zero he was left alone in a way no human can comprehend. We know: he came out on the other side gentle, generous, quieter. Forever after, he would say very little about it. Only: shrink. Only: nevertheless.