The Dust of Our Sorrow

The cedar waxwing lit on the hard packed earth under the bayberry bush. It seemed at first that it was the bird’s wing beat that had stirred the dust. The fine powder rose in a puff and slowly rearranged itself along the edges of the dried leaves and around the lichens and mosses but the dust did not rest. It skittered. It shifted. The grains moved. Gaining strength and sentience from an imperceptible vibration, it collected in folds and crevices and then, reaching a tipping point, poured over an edge or down a channel, forming anthill-like mounds and tiny screes. The gathering had begun again. When the dust began to drift around its feet the waxwing took flight, its reflection caught in the river Styx below.

*
There had always been an order and procession to my daily routines. Now those routines were subjected to the overbearance of a pending decision. Its demands had been growing so that it now soaked into my every task and thought. It created an imperceptible vibration, a hum filling all the silent spaces. It demanded resolution. And so, I decided. The vibration resolved to clarity.

Or so it seemed. Powdery small grains of my sanity began to slough away.

*
The waxwing stretched its wings and expanded its breast, flanks and belly, causing each pinion and down feather to stand erect and separate, letting the cool breeze cleanse the flesh underneath. As the bird settled on its perch, the breeze moved on. It created eddies in the powder below. As the wind began to gather momentum, it spun the dust into a vortex. Within that funnel an androgenous shape took form. Charon’s reincarnation had begun. The grains of dust fed him /she inhaled the winds from the other world.

*
For a while I was able to maintain objectivity. I knew I was hovering, obsessing. I could see his amusement in my constant ministrations. I could hear his thoughts: “Okay. Okay, okay. Chill out. What a drama queen!” But even objectivity and rationality eventually slipped. A turbulent vortex was sucking me in, even as I lay there with him, dreaming of making our escape.

*
Tilting its masked face, the waxwing peered at the bayberry, first from the side and then from above. Its tufted head bobbed and sought the best angle at which to snatch the prize. It almost considered too long. The upheaval as Charon arose flushed all the birds in a cacophonous flurry. It was mere instinct that made the Waxwing grab the fruit in the midst of flight but it was fright that loosened its grasp, causing the berry fall. Strengthened by more and more gathering fragments, Charon looked up and began to chant. He tested the rhythm of his stroke to the beat of his heart.

*
I stared up at the sun. It radiated its intense energy from a deep core of pent up power. It had an ominous heart of beating anger. It was indiscriminating in the release of that anger. It was fusion and flare bursting forth. In my head it sounded like a thousand screaming birds.

“It’s coming. It’s coming.” It was unhinging me. More and more fragments of my mind were flying off in the fray. Thoughts were lost and resolve failed. Resignation took its place.

I began to sing, “Everything they whispered in our ear is coming true. You are mostly gone. I am staying right beside you. I will follow you down. I am here right beside you.”

*
The muddy river bank was impressed with the trident markings of the waxwing’s feet as the bird hopped from spot to spot in search of trampled seeds. The few bits of dust that fell as Charon moved to the boat went unnoticed but the cat padding along behind was not disregarded. The bird moved to a near-by branch. Charon picked up the tune from the other world and sang to the cat in her lap telling him of his beauty. She levered the oars against the current.

*
I had reached out and grasped beauty that certainly must be eternal, only to find that it was my reaching that was eternal. He had been taken from me. Hadn’t my reach come up empty in the end? I drifted. My contemplation bobbed aimlessly as if in the wake of a slowly passing boat.

*
The wind blew from across the river, laden with a fine dust that caused the waxwing to close its eyes to slits. Its feathers were tugged and lifted by the gusts as the bird held on to its perch. As the dust dispersed with the wind, the bird shook off the last grains in a frenzied flutter. Folding her wings, she began to sing.

*
I began to sing. “And if a mama bird is seen folding her wings will you remember me?” I felt a deep ponderous sorrow resolving. It was not resolving to clarity, but to “amen.”