She found there was no such thing as “moving on.” There was only “moving along with.” There was the outward and propelled traversing of her life, because there were no other options: Life – it’s business and chores and joys, too – would not stop and so she could not stop.
Death was a thing she regarded close up. She took it as a concept from inside a large cardboard box and set it on the table before her and gazed at it, at the mystery of it, from all sides. It was changeable and storied, it had elevations and hollows all along its surface.
(She put it back in the box but it was clumsy, to try and pack it back up. Somehow, it did not fit and the flaps at the top could not be taped down.)
This time of year, the wind begins to hum a song from the memorial’s hymnal. She catches it from the corner of her ear.
Everything is full of sunshine, suddenly, because it is finally April, yet she knows May will be landing soon. May and all its collapse will be opening the box and will set up for its concert. She can hear the sound become louder, nearly mezzo forte now.
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mary june brown 