“My only question is,” she said, “Where do they go after this?”
Faith, I believe is the word, I said. I cannot not believe, otherwise where would they be? At that time, I envied the people around me with unwavering faith, because the conviction that he is somewhere, wherever that is, is better than struggling with the questions – Is this it? And then?
Once, some time ago, an aunt and I agreed that it is better not to seek answers to, or look for meaning to these permanent absences. This is just how it is, you feel it, and then.
So for you, my friend, I share this:
The Same Old Figurative
by Joel M. Toledo
Yes, the world is strange, riddled with difficult sciences
and random magic. But there are compensations, things we do
perceive: the high cries and erratic spirals of sparrows,
the sky gray and now giving in to the regular rain.
Still we insist on meaning, that common consolation
that every now and then makes for beauty. Or disaster.
Listen. The new figures are simply those of birds,
the whole notes of their now flightless bodies snagged
on the many scales of the city. And it’s just some thunder,
the usual humming of wires. It is only in its breaking
that the rain gives itself away. So come now and assemble
with the weather. Notice the water gathering on your cupped
and extended hands—familiar and wet and meaningless.
You are merely being cleansed. Bare instead
the scarred heart; notice how its wild human music
makes such sense. Come the divining
can wait.
Let us examine the wreckage.
(for B, who has just recently said goodbye to a love one; and for him, I say a prayer)
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