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"Pilgrimage"

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Lynne:
First, a bit of backstory. I intended to write a ten-minute play for a contest, Ten for Tenn, which I posted about in a separate thread.  This is what my first attempt at a play turned into...I guess it would be called autobiographical fiction. Comments welcome!


The late-model maroon Dodge rental car pulls off to the side of the rutted, dusty road.

"This is as far as I go."

We nod in understanding, and you give her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.  

"Don't be hard on yourself.  We all deal with our grief in our own way, in our own time.  There's no right or wrong here."

Somberly you and I get out of the car, leaving her to her private thoughts.

The silence seems eerily oppressive, complementing the unimaginable vastness of the clear blue sky.

It's a still day, which makes it even harder to conceive of the violence that took place here a couple of years ago.

We head south down the road, following a fence row that must keep unseen animals in.  Our eyes are focused intently on the dirt tracks in front of us, and we shuffle our boots as we go.

I state the obvious.  "There's no hurry. She will wait on us as long as it takes."

You nod in acknowledgment, knowing it is like me to talk when I'm uncomfortable.

I almost trip over a snake-like coil of barbed wire protruding from the road.

I take a photograph of it. After all, one reason for coming is to bear witness.  Those of us who see have a need to share the story.

"If he had a flat, that might have been the cause of the puncture in the tire."

You nod thoughtfully, as if you are giving my comment serious consideration.

Long minutes later:   "We both know it weren't no flat tire."

We do know. I nod with a sigh.

After three-quarters of a mile or so the fence makes a 90 degree turn east along some railroad tracks. The tracks are broken here and there and overgrown from long disuse.

"Reckon this is where it happened."

Two years after the fact there's no sign of where he died, choking on his own blood, his last view one of men with hatred and fear in their hearts, willing to do violence to preserve how they see themselves, swinging their hammer and their wrench and their tire iron down upon him until there was no life left in him.

We gaze at the spot for a long time, each seeing in our mind's eye how it must have been for him, hoping the killing blow had been early so as to be merciful, but knowing he had not gone down that way.  Knowing him as we do, he would've struggled and fought for his life until the bitter end.

You pick some sage and some other herbs and some flowers I don't recognize, maybe laurel, for a ceremony later to remember him.

We hug and hold each other close. We are like soldiers who fought side by side in a war, our friendship forged by the proximity of tragedy and loss.

Looking down, you see a rusty iron railroad spike and pick it up. It seems an appropriate souvenir.

We make our way back to where our friend and her rental car wait for us.  I think of that car as a patient mount, long-suffering but wise, willing to venture only so close to the cliff and not one inch further.

Her eyes ask us how it went, but the tears drying on our cheeks are all the answer she needs.

A breeze blows up seemingly from nowhere, and a dragonfly alights on your index finger, lingering there longer than we think a dragonfly normally would.

We share another common thought - isn't it funny how two people who have only seen one another a handful of times can know each others' thoughts with only a glance?

He is OK - at rest, at home.  It is time for the rest of us to get back to the business of living.

Written Saturday, July 10 on bus 76 going to work.
Edited that same afternoon on the bus returning home.

Sason:
Awesome, Lynne!!   :-*

Lynne:
Thank you, Sonja!  :-*

Shakesthecoffecan:
Oh you bring tears to my eyes again. That is so evocative, so eloquent. I wish I knew how to write a play, it would make a good one.

Lynne:
Thank you, Friend Truman. It hurt to write, but in that cathartic way, like seeing the old bird.
I don't know how to write a play either, but I think we should give it a shot - nothing to lose, after all.

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