Looking at the Tomb of an Unknown Man

Do not let me hear
Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,
Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,
Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.
The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.

The houses are all gone under the sea.

The dancers are all gone under the hill.––’East Coker’, Eliot

In 1996, I filled a large green plastic bin with the things I carried as a young man.

It sat in dark storage for years when I was in a relationship. After a while and a few years of struggle, I moved it to a friend’s garage.

Now, I live alone. It has been in the back seat of my truck for a year and a half.

A friend helped me move it out. The bin is filled with forgotten things and others that make me wonder why I saved them.

I picked through the surface of my past.

Then I stopped.

There is a young man trapped in there. He could be the lost writer I drank under the table. He could be the boy who loved a girl so much that he thought she created the world. She did, too.

The young man hitched a ride on a comet that froze on the far side of the sun.

The cinders lurk.

Now I am older, and at the end of the part of life, the young man was beginning.

How do you make something that was for nothing into a thing that is real?

A thing that matters.

Of course, I am not sure. I have an inkling that it will require giving up a few things and making changes. After the physical part, he realizes he has become a new type of beast.

There is a new yearning now, green seedlings pushing through aged skin.

A yearning for beauty. Time without interruption. Time to write.

Time enough for love.