Discover more from Wayfare
We are to add est and eth to every verb, a tradition leftover from a time when the words meant dearest, love of my life. Now, they are meant to make the language holy (sacred, not secret), set apart like a sabbath. Thou art. Apparently, I shouldn’t love you the same way I love gelato or the call of a chickadee on a lonely afternoon, as if they weren’t the same thing. At church, children and newcomers talk to you straight out, not yet suspecting how strange this sounds to us long-time worshippers, how exciting. Once they realize, they blush and stutter, adding letters indiscriminately. I’m done with it. It’s like wearing boxing gloves for our thumb-matches, God, and I won’t have it. Thou art puts you in the sky somewhere, and the sky is only half the story. You are my hero and my nemesis and everything in between. You are my heartbeat and distant drums, my breath and the glamours squabble of aspen and spruce on the mountainside. You abide like the sequels of blockbusters, all of them with you in the title: “Return of.” “Revenge of.” You are subject and object, rain and blood. Darling.