I am one of them, of late, on these frosty fall mornings. Huddled together near the sea-hemmed edge of an ancient grove of evergreens, they, like me, are drawn to the massive boulder that juts out just above the jagged cliffs, to wait and hope. Mourn and remember.
The brass plaque is ancient, as well.
I Pine For You And Balsam Too
As ancient as the trees, and oxidized green from time and a constant shower of salt spray. Engraved in flowing script left over from a long forgotten era, the plaque has been attached to stone for so long it’s hard to imagine one ever existing without the other. Just as it’s impossible to recall a time when there was no need to wait and hope, mourn and remember.
Nearly a week has passed, and still no word as to your fate. I look out towards the ocean, and sense my own hope, once as solid as flesh and blood, beginning to seem less and less corporeal.
Like this gathering of us.
And I wonder if I’ll still be drawn to the rock beneath the evergreens, even after I’m gone.