qedem

listen to the whispers of those eastern winds,

they are telling you the secrets of the Northern Lights
.
The child Carrie had been left in the cemetery for over 100 years. The tombstone had eliminated the actual day in the month of December as though the day itself was irrelevant, though it would be the only day the baby had existed in. The eastern winds arrived the night that the stars had forgotten to shine. When the morning came, it arrived with the sun that had rose in the wrong place in order to align with the Northern Lights, and I was content to allow it to do so. These nights are hallow, and thus sacred in that only within the suns refusal to shine can the whispers of the night be heard. I can not tell you now how it came to be that the whispers of the east or the traveling screams of the North had brought me here to rest upon this place in which I was now so willingly confined too. One must never overlook the simplicity of a walk taken at dawn, or the whispers of the trees singing the song they know by heart. The wind that had brought me here now moved in a circular motion traveling the leaves east across her grave, until landing finally on the site of another. I found it odd for leaves to be traveling east, but I followed anyway simply because they seemed so determined by their path and one can not overlook or question the telling of leaves.
There was a hush that seemed somehow to travel from the center of the world. Its presence arrived as those that come from one’s soul usually do, unexpected yet always known. This arriving silence, which could have been a scream, seemed to tell me the hourglass had shattered and the sand now simply fell to where ever nowhere goes. This nowhere of falling sand had landed on the child Carrie. The child buried in the month of December.

If the silence which had traveled from the center of the world had been interrupted I must have forgotten to hear it. I had found my stillness along side a raging river that seemed to be surprised by my presence. I chose to sit it out anyway. And the river wasn’t as much raging, as it seemed to be seeking itself out in calm confusion.
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