for John Chance
In the beginning was theory and the theory was made flesh so that we could find our way home. I walk slowly through the points of rain.
In the beginning was sound and it was everything, against all odds. In the meantime the bald bus driver has eaten his apple to the core and re-boarded the bus. His hand resting on the fare box, we start out again into traffic.
“Never was there a time you and I did not exist, Arjuna.” I am a ball of wings rolling toward you. Theory become flesh. The music is in the gaps.
I enter the lobby. "I have come to see my uncle," I say. "Where will you be waiting?" queries the lady from the glass cage. "The waiting room", I reply. She will not meet my eye. I am announced through the seven miles of hallways.
He appears, hollow and weary on his cane. It is not a walking stick to navigate the world of the living. It is his handrail to the grave.
He is an unanswered question. We step out into the mist and stop. I watch him openly, as one watches a child, the insane, or the dead. “Listen to the trees,” he says, rolling his eyes up and back. “It is good to be alive; to share a little company now and then.”