It started as a slow trickle about two years ago. There in a box, unopened in years and many moves, was a letter. Not just any letter, but one from a dying man to his eldest son. The paper somewhat crisp after nearly thirty years but well preserved.
It was not long or deep with philosophy or emotion; that wasn't the type of man he was. It was a simple letter wishing his son well and telling of the man's recent difficulties. He was failing in many ways. Even through his honest attempt to hide this fact, it was obvious to his son.
Through moist eyes, I read the letter a few more times, smoked a few more cigarettes and swore. It was a one way letter. That man is buried in a grave to the right of this photo in the Eliza Creek Cemetery.
You see, the man sent this letter the day before he died. The son received it a few days after he passed. I was starting my senior year of high school in 1983.
The trickle slowly increased. While packing for my upcoming move, I found a shot glass. Not just any shot glass, but one my dad used to drink the occasional Canadian Club from. I packed it carefully.
Then, slowly, old friends from school would find my profile on FaceBook and add me. People I hadn't conversed with in over twenty years were contacting me as if we had only just parted.
The pace increased. A fellow I went with to my first concert contacted me. To my utter surprise, not only is he doing well, but is in a real band making money! AND, he rides a StreetGlide!
Then a few days ago, who sends me a message about a certain 25 year high school class reunion? My girlfriend from high school... AND she made me laugh by asking if I were with the Hell's Angels. (No, I am not).
Last night I was messaged by a lady from grade school!
Here is the crux of this post... I understand that there is something going on that I don't understand. Does history have a message for me? Why should these people and things start becoming part of my life again? Not that it isn't welcome, quite the contrary, but why?
And here is one of the reasons that make me wonder. A few weekends ago, while packing, I discovered a small cache of photos from when I was a kid. I was smiling and laughing and playing.
'Look at what I had, who I was and now... who I am. Where did that guy go? Will he awake? Will he rest forever? Will he till the ground again? Will he kiss the hand of a beautiful woman again?'
And words failed. For more than a week the words would simply not come out, whether it be computer or voice or pen and paper. Sentences and paragraphs held hostage in a cranial traffic jam. Off in the distance is the cause; my history and my reality. I let the words go and the traffic jam disintegrated.
What does it want to tell me, and further, do I really want to know?
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