My insides are rustling in breezes making the scratching music of dry leaves on dead twigs.
It is a lonely, little song. Not much of a song at all. Just the skittering whispers of my spirit. The wind blowing through the holes, my experiences and knowledge and beliefs all scattered like garden detritus at my feet.
Barren. Bare twig. Dead leaf.
And I make a decision.
I’d rather the wind howl in my soul full of holes. At least the hollow moan is real. Undressed, unfilled, naked, waiting.
The reminders of the renting of the veil press upon my ears and clutch my throat. I swallow for a bit of spittle to quench my thirst.
Sparrows chipped in the pines overhead, the October sky shone brilliant as a bluebird’s breast, a pickup turned the corner and rumbled east and a grasshopper landed on a tall, seeded spire of grass. I watched it swaying there on its mast. And in the midst of all the soporific murmurs of an ordinary afternoon, I think because I stopped to listen, I heard the heartbeats cease and the veil rent. I am perforated by the empty end of lives I never knew.
The yielding of ghosts.
A tear falls and I’m silly. I’m a lady wearing yoga pants beside the road, crying over the death of people she never knew. But it’s my death, too. Because we share it all—this suffering, this toddling, loving, worrying, planning life is terminal.