There’s a bit of truth in any fiction. A bit of “non” amongst all of the
fantasy. This is one of those
stories. Something half remembered in
dreams, the rest composited through the fragmentations of time, and then passed
along in the oral tradition from ear to ear.
A journey scantly recalled in the eyes of an almost three-year-old, but
the weight of a world on the shoulders of a pair of brothers, a wife, a
husband, who played both father and mother.
A tribe collecting itself to understand and garrison the levees as the
storm broke them. This is a sad story,
but like all sad stories it is alleviated by the knowledge that the struggle
was struggled through, that there was indeed a light at the end of that tunnel.
It is impossible to be inside the head of the real
players, method actors on a stage ripe with tragedy, it is impossible to add
the drama, to possess the arc of the plot in the right order, from stasis, to
rising and falling action, and then to climax.
It is impossible to promise resolution for truth be told the story
marches on. As all stories march on and
as all tragedies never fade but sit as whispered reminders of what came before.
This is a truth borne out of many other’s truths. People in similar circumstances, plans
uprooted by the snake of unfortunate events but do not be afraid that the
journey will be bogged in the muck of weeping.
Life is often comedy and drama all at once, the masks smiling and
frowning, a respite during the wane of a candle that begs out, out. This is a story, a bit of truth, a lot of
lies, but lying in full honesty, naked to the watchful eyes.
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