By Katherine Johnson
December 21, 2017
It has been a long year and a longer decade, where these measures, arbitrarily made, are plopped atop the stack of time permanently lost; where each of these measures of men begin and end in the season we call winter that passes somewhere in the universe that cares not what we say; where new births come alive in a season and too are plopped onto that finite path which must end in an infinite season of vast solitude; such are the bones that make up long years and longer decades that will soon be picked naked by time and join the dead.
At the end of this long year I find myself living in a vast landscape, belonging to a peculiar winter family, aging, where each lives in confinement, solitaire, deluded, believing that this is by choice but in reality is more the culmination of every right, wrong encountered and inflicted along the finite path and to some unknown degree by the very atoms that defined our souls, our fate, long, long, long ago; where I sleep warm in the vastness, drunk and by burning what is left of the good fortune I encountered, a miracle it seems, when compared to those that lay on frozen ground, drunk too, and find themselves being burned alive by the culmination of their atoms, their lives, their fortunes, their fate.
Now at the end of my decades I find myself writing from what I want to be my last living place on earth, New Mexico, for reasons that are more akin to completing a will than anything else; a living oxymoron, a bag of flesh that has never changed, full of unequal bitterness and joy, living life anew, reimagined; where my thoughts are consumed with being in love with this time, infinite and finite; where I can feel the pending change of season in my aching bones; where I hear the land whisper that the wise rub its red earth, a blessing, over your heart, where I am now surrounded by people whose atoms have been smelted, forged, and hammered by an infinite sun into a cultural metal that too is a blessing; all this, all this, makes you fall to your knees, weeping, beneath a staked plains sky, as blue as the music of America that most certainly resounds to the moment of creation.
Copyright 2017 By Katherine Johnson – All Rights Reserved