Life is an illusion of gentle faces in cracking mirrors, their images clouded by too many tears. As the cold chill reappears, I could only hope that the snow would teach us to tread gently into the future.
by Ruwantissa Abeyratne in Montreal
I dreamed a dream in times gone by
When hope was high and life worth living
From the musical score of Les Misérables
There were times when we walked through tender meadows of sunshine and warmth, through laughter in good times. We felt as though the doors of heaven were here on earth and they opened at the sound of our footsteps. Wherever we went, bright angels watched over us and kept us from fear, danger and evil. Laughter and joy of simple pleasures followed us through our inevitable journey. We felt as though the whole world had been invigorated by the touch of a butterfly and the splash of a drop of dew.
It was as though we were made of the mountains and lakes of oceans far and wide: of the winter's white snow; and the summer's red sun. Together, like the great wind we shook the roots of the tree of life to the barest twigs.
Then it all went wrong.
Now we grieve our losses by consoling ourselves that we have given ours back to the Lord who gave them to us. We pray we’ll meet again on the horizon of eternity when our ship finally sails beyond every limit of our sight.
These are times when we straddle in utter despair, helpless and insecure. We need someone’s hand to hold and to cling to for strength, for hope and for cure. So, who do we go to? Our parents or friends? No matter if that person’s kind. When darkness falls and all light has gone, we should have someone that we could find. When tears of remorse and smiles that we share wipe promises that we can’t keep; when the trials of life meet our faces square, we should not be alone when we weep and cry for different things. We have lost the comfort of our ordinary miracles in our lives.
We are surrounded by walls of grief and nameless dead lives, so brief with hope once led. Cruel blows were dealt by a virus so rough on a helpless world where life was already tough. Children were let go by parents whose choice perversely so was to be left with one less of the loving ones desperate to survive. One had to be let go for the other to thrive. The future will bring fears where cruelty abounds but there will never be such tears of parents daughters and sons. As they lay dying: starved lips; pale cheeks; dry eyes that no longer see; shrivelled limbs; shrunken muscle no longer able to cope with life's tussle. Quivering lips, a rosy cheek, moist eyes longing to seek life's continued bond a pathetic mime as we look at each other just one last time.
Nature cares not, and Summer is gone. While raking Summer's bounty: a myriad leaves dead; brown, I begin to value the shelter from the harsh reality they offered while they lived. They are of no use now, as I would be to my children when they no longer need shelter from reality.
Its Fall again. There can be no returning to the perfumed meadow of Summer. The change of seasons tells us to keep going. There is no going back. It is as though an alien sky swallowed us that clear day. The past is an illusion. There are no answers no good, no evil: only a million promises not kept that day, when it raised its ugly head. We’ll fill the craters with ashes: level the furrows; plant grass, trees, flowers; lay white gravel path and some rustic benches - a public park. And hush the cries of orphaned children.
Yes, it’s Fall again, but not Wordworth's, where forest and meadow dream: mist wreathed under an unchanging sky. Nor Keats' mellow fruitfulness. But ours perhaps, thinking thoughts filled with grief, wandering in the windswept lane of uncertainty. Fall again, yet more real than before, a season where summer and winter meet in the day's decline. But it matter's not, to a young woman at death’s door, or a father leaving behind his loved ones. Their only solace is sleep, where darkness keeps all secrets safe.
Yet, there’s one silver lining - the health worker - when the world moves in silent relapses of infirmity seeking wisdom from its chosen few to mend its fences There is never a quiet storm or timid typhoon in human strife and sickness. Every step she takes, every move he makes as one chosen to tinker with lost souls and make things right, makes anonymity more rewarding than life itself. Like the beauty of a flock of doves flying home together.
Through them I see a new dawn of harvests and promise: of trees swaying in the cool breeze; trying desperately to lose their leaves telling stale stories of times past. I know it is time for new life: to start with the freshness of hope, and all the happiness that my heart can take.
Life is an illusion of gentle faces in cracking mirrors, their images clouded by too many tears. As the cold chill reappears, I could only hope that the snow would teach us to tread gently into the future. When Christmas comes, we could wish for ourselves the nicest Christmas: where children are healthy, and marriages strong; where silver rain will become tomorrow's tender snow, for elders to tread gently into another year. I wish for their happiness, because If they despair, the shred of hope they have for joy in the festive season will disappear beneath the frigid hostility of life's woes.
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