Twilight

    The light was not good. It never is in late afternoon before the street lamps come on, and the darkness has exposed its intention.  The last remnants of the day left to debate their departure. 

    I sit on a bench that overlooks the pond. The sunset, when one is realized, snared by the pool, divided into prisms of promise, and sent into the darkness, escape. It was on just such an evening that I noticed him, her, it, for the first time. Normally people avoid the park in late afternoon since the…well, let’s just say suspicious activity that resulted in the demise of the peace that resided in the Aberdeen neighborhood, of Clifton Heights.

    It was with the memory of that event, that I found the glimpse of what I believed to be unusual, most revealing. There was only a suggestion of something out of the ordinary, but pronounced enough to pull me from my usual stupor, a self-imposed melancholy brought on by the refracted light of the remaining day, and the promise of what the night could bring.

    The figure moved in stealth fashion from the shadows to the bench that imbedded itself on the ponds lip. It sat in stoic fashion below the dead lamp above; it had in one distant time glowed like a lost moon. The figure I could not assess, male or female?  The hat, the long coat disguising the outline, rendering it no more than a presence that had slipped from anonymity, and found itself a part of life.

    When the suspicion settled on the park, the entire town inhaled in disbelief. Not because it was impossible, but because no one had believed it possible. When something the perception of sinister arrives, crawls from the recess of our imaginations, it is quickly rendered not welcome; simpler, more efficient that way. There was no fertile ground for it to put down roots, the towns will was too powerful to be ignored, too toxic to allow unwarranted advances against its morality.

    I come to this bench every afternoon. I sit, my back to the woods, my eyes looking across the pond to the main street where life plays out daily, in its own time, its own purpose, and knowing a tomorrow will come; it always does. It has to, doesn’t it?

    I sit watching the illusion that holds us captive. I see what I believe I see, a hat, a coat; my mind begins to manipulate the facts into a form I am comfortable with. 

    I am the spirit of that essence of time and purpose; I am the biographer of the place where days come and go. I record what passes for love, hate, empathy, apathy, life. I hear the hearts beat, the tears fall, the screams from those not heard, the prayers of those that are. 

    The secrets that hide in the shadows, those that come out only in the darkness of night, as they are embarrassed by the light, shamed by the prospect of tomorrows they don’t understand. I watch the good dissolve into madness, the evil pretend to take its place. I can do little more than watch. The soul of a town, not unlike that of a person, is expansive, unchartered, caged by the freedom to choose.  Our souls belong to no one, they belongs to everyone, and yet they are their own…confessor.

    Small towns have an illusional documentarian that is the push and pull of the social and economic order, that, much like a kaleidoscope, displays the color and tone which changes with the maturity and immaturity of those that come and go. The development of its members, some succeeding, some failing, all hoping to find a state of confidence that recognizes that neither matters.

    The secrets that fall with the leaves are buried with the loss of an individual contribution, that may be as latent as a disease, until it emerges and demands recognition. New life springs from the social fabric of possibility, encouraged by some, smothered by others, but remaining a contribution to the whole.

The eyes that see, and those that don’t. The ears that hear, and those that won’t. Those that sing for forgiveness on Sundays, those that sing for liberation on Saturday night, stirred by those that judge, condemn, pardon; a line in the sand of uncertainty, where all the blind feel their way through the maze in an attempt to belong.

    The tongues wag, the eyes dart, the ears pick up, and the stories develop without organized motivation, without introspective examination, but with the judgement that rivals the Nuremberg trials. Our story develops, evolves, clamors for attention, and hides in the corner in hopes of being overlooked.

    The face of the culprit that sits on the bench in the glow of a defunct moon, is painted with individual brushes, and the communal colors of a black and white rainbow. The face that emerges is different for every individual that participates, as we all see what we need to see, hear what we must hear, enabling us to confirm our own beliefs, and judge with the will of a conjured God, or a Devil that pays the bribes.

   My truth is your lie, your hope is my despair, and although we do not understand either, we are comfortable giving them to the ghostly figure who for all we know exists, only because of the dim light, the fog that consumes the pond, the sun we are promised will emerge, but with no guarantee. Our suppositions are subjective, objective, completely foolishness, but that is who we are, who we have become. We do not ask for forgiveness, because we are never wrong, or always wrong.  Does it really matter which?

    I sit as the breeze slows, the leaves forget to whisper, as the mystery emerges allowing the shadows to take on a life of their own, with a little help from our prejudice. 

    I see the figure cross its leg, one over the other, adjust its hat, button its coat, smile, frown, laugh, cry, and all of what I see is pure conjectured imagination, life is safer that way. We can’t be held accountable for exploiting our own suspicions, while disregarding that thing, that doubt that tugs at our decency, our ethics, our morality. That question that springs from our soul and makes us look at our creation, and then as if we are pure, cast our verdict.

    I watch as the figure pushes itself from the bench, stands looking across the pond to the main street window of the diner. Its face is reflected in the mirage of colors cast by the fluorescent spaghetti that spells out our destinies. If we take the time to see, hear, and believe, we will see we are the sum of our suppositions.

    We look across the pond to the plate glass window. We paint our pictures, we tell our stories, we recite our truths, we share our lies, and then appear to be surprised by the dichotomy that jumps from the window, and follows us down the street, through the back door, and to our dreams that wait silently in the darkness for us to quit pretending we are more, or less, than we profess to be.