Lit Up | Creative Nonfiction

Twirling in the Twilight

…at the edge of the woods

At the Edge — Image by Deborah T. Hewitt

And the deafening silence.

It was delivered in the dark of winter. Rain on windshield, fog, rolling green hills, lush forests, ominous peaks, hues of blue, pink, white and dark canvas flight, ocean’s roar, the biota of Earth, from air, land, sea to icy moons, carrying tunes.

The words fell on the floor.

One week now. A silent knowing.

Before this, my body howled with the emptiness of my expectations. A world I have only come to know fully, in that whatever I had hoped, yearned for, craved, would be the aversion of those most close.

So in this imminent moment where leaving is all I know — as I stay. It will be final.

My earthly father. Strong, independent, emotionally guarded, a painfully loyal, honorable man.

And in this moment of quiet, between birth and death, I will remember five years later, how he fought for my heart in one last attempt to regain something so naturally beautiful, so pure, even he could not have imagined its loss.

As the dark grew darker, the monks of Mount Angel, Oregon, held his memory, while I whispered love in his ear. After the bells rang down the hallway of the hospice, there was no victory here on the damp dark terrain. What was snatched still remains a mystery dangling from the hooked foot. For the ones I have let go of, where lights flame with sudden sharpness, flicker in intermittent sweetness, and suddenly expire — there is a choice in the lingering.

Holding my lantern just so. In hunt of steady. Moaning for the easement of connection to something that is not of this world. Anchor. Watching my hound gently rub her body past and through the base of flora, trancing, I feel the need to remember why I am here.

It is not the cessation of childlike wonder, but to captivate it, harness what is left of forced goodbyes so long ago. Or the death of children so young. The audacity of another to take such authority over being — unending, perpetual circles of madness.

With each brave step forward, left behind, from heaven to earth, trailing my tiny feet securely like deer on heights, savoring little lights within the permanent glow at the edge of the woods.

I am twirling in twilight.

I miss you dad.

Goodbye, again, for now — in this temporal place where wild shattered and joyful water falls in tremors.

The town dad loved where children died in abundance, as parent’s fought for this piece of earth. They will always live in my heart. Image by Deborah T. Hewitt

(above) In answer to Mary Oliver’s poem:

**You Are Standing at the Edge of the Woods**

You are standing at the edge of the woods at twilight when something begins to sing, like a waterfall

pouring down through the leaves. It is the thrush. And you are just…

(continues in link)