[633] in Depressing_Thoughts
The First of December
capsalad@ATHENA.MIT.EDU (capsalad@ATHENA.MIT.EDU)
Thu Dec 1 05:17:35 1988
I remember.
When I said "goodbye" it was no more than a weak ritual, a sport of
courtesy for plain folk. But the word caught in my throat, stone cold and
unforgiving. I could say nothing.
Ah, for an instant her eyes held me, told me my name again, sank my mind
twenty fathoms down in their onslaught of brown. There was a glint, again,
no more, a flash of green in brown, blue perhaps, so much colder.
And the wanderer is come home now, cold on the first of December, but
his home would not wait for him as he longed for his warm bed and his warm
fire. The first of December curtained the mighty night air with the chill
toch of snow, snow that would fall softly for a long time, blanketing the
North long under a smothering weight of bright white.
So cold, that white.
I feel the thoughts of those who hear names in the music of water, in the
closing of a door; for these I must be patient, must tend a dying fire, myself
to burn weakly for some span of years. I see a hand on my arm, a claim;
bitter knowledge shows it false, mocking.
Coal all gone. Stove breathing out cold, black dust in my eyes, leaden
clouds peering starkly down: hello, man. From up here you look much smaller.
I remain now only in the forlorn expectation of renewal, in the careworn
memory of pain-clouded past, and my eyes tell me that my fire is flickering
weakly, dull red, almost out. When it is gone entirely so will I too be
gone.
I think I have not long to wait.
