I stare out the window of my cottage, a refuge from a marriage lost. Even the trees are dying. I hear the click of my pen, knowing it must have its way.
“On a sand-scaped shore where life squirmed out from its beginnings, a mother is suspended just above her shadow which grows longer as the sun recedes. The children rise from her shadow …”
Yes, it is another story, I have it in my head. My novels sold well, once. Now, there is no market for novels, no words, no stories. Libraries are a thing of the past, but writing has become a habit.
Yesterday the internet began shutting down. Communications are failing around the globe. I never thought it would come to this.
I make a fresh pot of tea. It is the last of the package. The last of all packages. Richard worked for NASA. He expected sons, or even girls to carry on his dream. I failed.
Esher’s multiples on a plane, pleasing, confounding, petrifying, Stravinsky’s complex compositions, Hegel’s theories, Einstein’s gifts merge into a helix of variables, where past and present play tricks; the child called Futurity ties his shoelaces, draws the bow taut.. I add to my former lines,
“The children know forever. The children never tell, they owe no explanations. Listen, say the children, there’s music everywhere.”
I lay down my pen. Before me is a blank screen. It is past time for the broadcast, the one that will tell us what we need to do.
∼ Marge Simon
© Copyright Marge Simon. All Rights Reserved.