Sunday, September 13, 2009

Le Jours de Temps

Dearest Genevieve,

I am writing to you because the winds outside were a bit tumultuous. I couldn’t sleep this past night nor the week really. The sounds of nature are getting to me. Can’t you tell? The silence of the woods, the chirping of the birds – I thought this was supposed to be a place of solace?

Timothy and the boys have been rather annoying lately. They kind of remind me of the nature that surrounds me. The other night there was a terrible storm that came through and rattled all the branches around us. One of them fell through George’s tent and smacked him in the face. Of course we couldn’t hear his screams during the storm, but when we woke up and noticed he wasn’t awake - we knew something had happened.

Jacob was the first to see it. He pulled the flap back and immediately covered his mouth. The branch was a large one – maybe 40 or so pounds. The brunt force of it had smashed his ribcage and nailed him to the ground. He was completely frozen in rigor mortis. You could still see the tension in his fingers, gripping at the bark. His throat looked taut and strained like the skin of an animal after a hunt.

Francis couldn’t even look at all. After hearing the weeping sobs of Jacob he knew something wrong had happened. I don’t blame him though, I wouldn’t have wanted to see it if I knew what to expect. Unfortunately for myself, Timothy and I were the ones in charge of burying his corpse. It surely wasn’t delightful, surprisingly enough, but I wondered if George had made peace with himself before he left us. I thought how his family might react or what words they would say first – if any – when they’d receive the news.

For the past few days I’ve been wondering those kinds of questions. For all those words that go unsaid - those actions that go by without a stir – what difference would it make had we said them? I wonder if I really did make things better by never telling George how much I hated his breath in the morning or the way he annoyed me with those afternoon chanties. I’m sure if I had told him he wouldn’t appreciate it, but maybe he would? He did seem like a man of honor and integrity. He seemed to like honesty also – especially that one time when Kingsley stole the last piece of pie. Do you remember that night? The bloody fool ate the last piece – on George’s birthday!

Nonetheless, our dear friend is gone. We buried him next to the stream where the soil was soft and there were rocks to cover up the freshly dug dirt. The grass remains green but I wonder how much longer it will stay before autumn comes. Remember that time we went acorn picking? Twas the silliest day in the world but I still remember it as one of my favorites. Acorns, what a loopy thing to pick.

Quand les feuilles changent de couleur, ainsi mai I
Le temps est froid, mais je ne suis pas

Ta chaleur est manqué que le temps passe
La faim n’est pas le même, pas plus

La vie peut être cruelle, mais il est naturel

Hopefully I can write again soon – another storm brews in the distance and my tent is hardly complete. Take care of yourself and remain well. A thousand goodbyes never seem like enough.

With everything and more,
H.L. Gavaignac

1 comment:

JAY said...

Mil adieus ne sont pas assez, mais au meme temps on se démande si elle réçoit la lettre, et plus, si elle peut la comprendre.