A Fatal Tourism

Wind, and the sound the wind makes, a bellows above landscapes I know by heart, and have never really left. The frozen exterior is only biology another way. When I was little, I memorized prayers and poems for fun, and recited them in the forest, also for fun. Swallows are a beloved, a nearly mystical bird but chickadees do the heavy lifting, in the way that I rarely bother eating crabapples but the trees themselves have never not marked the various paths unwinding before us. One step makes clear the next, which is a way of saying don't worry so much, and also, get on with it already. Men with hats, men with guns, and men with the burden of not knowing how to say what burned to ash in their throats. Was that what we needed to hear but didn't? Well, Jesus always reflected a confused but beautiful ideal and I am only just lately understanding there is a) no penalty for not lingering at Golgotha and b) no obligation to celebrate Passover in Jerusalem. Avoid a fatal tourism indeed! In the end, there is nothing to do and nobody special with whom to do it, and yet I still wait on her love letters, and remain grateful for her willingness to kneel. There is also the burden of finding one's way with words while knowing silence is the last and surest guide. The words settle like bread crumbs in our wake and hungry crows abound! On the other hand, how happy I am in the dark of 4 a.m., how gently the dog rests her head on my knee.