adrena

From under ancient Magnolias, on sacred ground I am watching marble and granite, in colors of solemnity and consolation. Between monuments to the dead, linger small groups of the living. Fathers with video cameras, diligently filming, documenting their young sons angst driven adventures in photography, are poignantly foiled by Mothers yelling at their daughters to get off the huge stones, and to stop touching every-damn-thing, you have no idea what is on there, as she comfortably sits on a bench of marble, that bears the ignored words, Cosmos Mariner, Destination Unknown. In this moment, they seem to forget the temperament of the ground they tread. Worried about humidity, and the sand that is gathering on overly lotion-ed legs, Mother forgets her ward. In a minute, the young girl is vanished. In her own translation of this mystic place, she has drifted off, in the rapture of her music, down one well-beaten path, then drifting aside towards her own ideas.
She is young and lithe in the way that only prepubescent girls are, straddling the moments before their lives change forever. She wears a bright pink swimsuit, a girls one piece that amplifies her skin, baking lightest brown with hair that glints metallic upon her crown. Her headphones are left to dangle about her neck and pour out the opening notes to Let it Be. She stops intent upon some object before her. The Kudzu, and the Oak, which it strangles, obscure my view for a moment. Curiosities peaked. My ears ring with the shrill reverberations of a mother who is still angry, fear has not yet eclipsed the moment. I move a little down the path. Do not worry mom, she is well watched.
She stands before a stone that dwarfs her, freshly disturbed earth at her feet. Her hands once slack at her sides are now reaching towards the monument. The cadence of McCartneys woeful voice moves around her, speaking words of wisdom, let it be. Her hair falls forward, kissing her cheeks, and she reaches a hand out. Guardedly, cautiously her fingers caress the inscription, a name, a stranger just masked. And when the brokenhearted people living in the world agree. She traces out a name I cannot see, and repeats it to herself. Carried on the breeze, I hear her breath quicken, her heart is seizing. For though they may be departed there is still a chance that they will see. There are tears gathering in her eyes and her fingers stay on the date. She mouths it again, and again, then aloud, over the music she screams it, July 27, 2009. She startled herself and quickly, troubled by the disturbance pulls her hand back. There will be an answer. There is still a tear, verging birth. When the night is cloudy, there is still a light, that shines on me. She pushes her hair behind her ear, the bright blonde strands carefully, artfully, and I think she knows I see her. For a second she stops and lets her hand rest on her ear, is she listening to Paul, or to me? Shine until tomorrow. She steps forward. Her body comes to meet the stone. Her palms are flat against the granite. Her head, her cheek is touching the cool, primeval rock. She turns her head. She is nose-to-nose with this monument, this testament to life and I think she knows. She pulls away for a moment, and looks centrally, as if she is looking into the stone. She uncertainly purses her lips. Tentatively an emotion is overcoming her. She closes her eyes and leans towards the tombstone. Warm, newly budding lips meet the bitter and unyielding stone. My breath is chastened and I melt with her. I wake to the sound of music, mother Mary comes to me. Then there is the shrill, piercing call, an angry mother. A bitter and emblazoned banshee made bold by the shame of loosing her daughter. The girl comes free the holds of stone and solemnity. She looks round, making a momentary contact with me, and then quickly she dashes, back towards the olden oaks. Mothers voice booms, her quarry found, her esteem runs high. The girl disappears. Then a second, an instant later, she swings back round the old oak tree, gripping tightly the trunk. And she is watching, waiting for some sign that it is ok to carry on. Speaking words of wisdom. Let it be, let it be.