What if I were to disappear? To be swept away into the luscious absence of time and space. What affects would trail behind? What would become of my things? Would they lay still and ardently untouched for weeks before a reverence period past? Or would acquaintances of my daily routines arrive and take a share each for their own enjoyment, and perhaps, in the process, commemorate me? So many things heaped over the years of confinement in this location of dreams, education gratis, liberty fought for and lost. The pen-holder—holding the providers of leaves and leaves of ink released and dried. The bookstand globes that remind me always that I am here and cannot be anywhere else; at least for now, that is. The cheap coffee maker and all its affects—along with all its memories of mornings, afternoons offering its services in lightening the load on my weary eyes. My stapler. My photos and years of collected letters and notes—every thought that I gave and somehow came back to me. And oh! The books, piled and stacked all around me—with my uncertain attempts to read them and become wise. My journals—pages and pages of my life, my restless or resting thoughts; my dreams for love and prayers for eternal perspective. Everything would be still. Silent. Awaiting only the curiosity of those who know me least.
And what would become of my dreams? The thoughts I thought; the ideas I rattled; the opinions I sheepishly expressed. The words I restrained and those I let soar; the images of beauty and hope that had covered my restless imagination every moment. The beautiful home with tall windows and columns of sunlight painting the floor. The gathering of girls, broken and desperate; my hand on their caving shoulders, hope pouring from my lips. The room with a desk and a typewriter; endless sheets of white potential. The radiant, lovely face on the other side of the isle; love and devotion exuding from the deepest place within our newly united souls. The sweet, gentle girl with wispy blonde hair, who holds onto my skirt and laughs like the world is her playmate. The determined, manly boy who seeks adventure and battles pirates everywhere he finds and speaks like he holds the key to every answer. Would they be altogether gone? Would the absence of my mind mark the absence of my dreams as well? Or would they float through time, through the avenues of remembrance and reflection, endlessly until the milkies finally arrive? Perhaps they would be still too. And slowly fade with the air brush of time that makes fuzzy even a clear blue day.
What about the souls that I would leave behind? The dearest ones who loved me and I too loved with every clump of my worn and unknowing heart. The man who held my hand through the fields and tumults of growth; the woman who cradled me, dressed me. What of their state? Would they long for the past; to touch my flesh-filled skin and embrace my pulsing body? Would they wish for different words, different actions, different times?
April, 2018