Journal Entry: Front Royal, Virginia; April 30, 1865
I always figured my first mission after war ended would be to collect the parcels I have hidden over the course of my travels; penny parcels cobbled together from captured cartridge cases and pieces of mislaid metal and wood, holding small bits of life and memories lost in the chaos of four war years. Finding a penny; I picked it up. Now, I am not sure I want to retrieve those memories at all.
Those parcels are stored, buried in the deep soil of my soul. If I try to unearth them, they may fall apart like dead leaves in my hand. I can not go back to those times; I can not go back there; there is no there. Let someone a hundred years from now unearth that life; it is no longer mine.
Burying the past always seems like such a good idea, until those seeds sprout and grow something new, a beautiful flower, or a vining weed that grabs you by the ankle and trails up your leg.
ReplyDeleteI am hoping this is a glimpse of where you are taking the story next??
Yes, burying the past is wishful thinking, like burying honeysuckle, it always comes back in the night.
ReplyDeleteThis part of the story will end this week, but perhaps we will meet this fellow at another junction.