Page 21 - Diane Musgrove Issue

The Empty Places dark night, you can hear her and feel her. Your
consciousness connecting to hers. I don’t hear it
in the city. You must go to the empty places; you
must walk in the untouched paths where only
By Grace Fox your senses think for you. The touch of the dirt
beneath your feet, the sound of the wind and
Each lifetime plays different roles, holding onto Coeur d’Alene was one that always held a spe- the birds, the smell of the trees and the grass.
eternal wounds, but always learning the same cial place in all our hearts. A place we had re- Close your eyes and feel her inside your heart.
lessons and never seeing the bigger picture turned to many times when we were younger. This is freedom, and there is magic in this forgot-
right before us. This time, we brought his ash body to the shore ten place.
My two older sisters, standing a few feet be- to say our goodbyes for the last time. He taught me that; he showed me freedom,
hind me, finally came and picked me up off the Just like Peter, who had forgotten all about whether he meant to or not. He taught me not
ground in a kind and supportive way, that only the magic of Neverland, my sisters and I have to conform to society. We would rather sleep
a sister can do. Arm in arm, we silently walked forgotten this place. Our memories are covered out under the stars in an unfamiliar place than
down to the river’s edge. The three of us all came with pain and sadness. We forgot the won- let our souls die under a blanket of smog sur-
to give his ash body away and say our final good- ders of being free. We forgot what this place rounded by comfortable things. People owned
byes to a man we didn’t even know anymore. A represented and who we were back then. We “things”; we owned adventure.
man we couldn’t bring ourselves to speak of for toured the country in a small trailer, all five of We stood there on the river bank and
the last ten years. us: Mom, Dad, my two older sisters, and myself, opened the little black box. I released his ashes
We made our way down to the riverbank, the youngest of our bunch. “Bear Meat” is what into the swiftly moving water. Some ashes im-
and I decided to say a few words before releas- they used to call me. I was always trailing so far mediately sank, and some started flowing away
ing the box of ashes into the river. “Dad always behind everyone else. I guess I was just taking it with the river current. He was returning back to
seemed to have the idea that at the end of his all in, on my own time. the empty places, back into the Earth to be re-
life, there would be some moment like “Mr. Hol- I grew up in trailer parks across the back roads newed again. He will start on his journey again.
lands Opus.” A crowd just waiting to stand up of the United States, from Alaska to the Flori- He will be recycled into a new body, kissed by
and cheer. I don’t think he ever could have imag- da Keys. I learned how to line dance, and swim the blessing of life that only Source can give. Per-
ined that he would die all alone in a cold hospi- with the Snow Birds in West Arizona. I learned haps he will start again in the future, perhaps in
tal bed with no one but a single nurse timing his to ride my bike in the Badlands, and I went dog the past. But as I watched his ashes float away,
last breath. Not even a friendly face. No one smil- sledding in Alaska. I learned to fish with my Dad I prayed that his next incarnation would not be
ing down at him, holding his hand. Only masked in the Florida Keys, and I played “tag” with the what he deserved. I prayed for his mercy and
faces. Only gloved hands.” I continued, “He was alligators strolling through the trailer parks in that he could learn on the other side the very
lucky enough to get an oxygen machine but Louisiana. I found wonder and magic in every- depths of our pain by watching not only just this
unlucky enough to get COVID from a prayer thing. I had a connection to the universe and to current life, but all five of our lives that we have
meeting. Prideful, arrogant bastard.” I took a nature. I saw its wonder and its beauty. I was not spent together.
moment to look at the river as I knelt down next held down by school curriculum and schedules. I I sat down with my sisters next to the river
to the water. My oldest sister Rachel chimed in, belonged to a different type of thought entirely. as we listened to his favorite songs. In my mind,
“He always had some grand concert going on in A compass that pointed in any direction my Dad I had so many questions. Will we replay these
his brain. He was always busy writing a book or chose. Which was any direction away from any same roles again? Who will play the teacher, the
a song or telling a story that would never hap- normal type of society. My Dad would book a victim, the monster? Will I see him again but not
pen. I think he wanted someone to tell him he church meeting, and off we would go—church recognize him?
was important and that he meant something.” to church, state to state, all the way across the How do you close this gaping heart? This
She continued. “He was starved for attention. country for fourteen adventurous years. open wound is miles apart. There is no closure,
He could never see his wife and three daughters Despite his crooked ways and monstrous only thoughts, memories of you covered in
standing side stage just cheering him on. Giving heart, a good part of me came from him. The stain; only time will heal the pain.
him all the love he could have ever needed. If part of me that separates my sisters and me This is a segment from Grace Fox’s upcom-
only he could have accepted it,” she ended. from the rest of society and binds us together in ing book Astraea’s Prophecy: Torch & Lavender.
I’ve sat on every pew across this country a special way. There is something so silent in the To pre-order this book, please contact Grace at
except his funeral service pew. There never was middle of nowhere that you almost can’t hear it. torchandlavender@gmail.com
one. There were, however, soft, warm breez- There are plenty of places along those roads that
es and the warm summer sun. Instead of cold you can go and be totally alone, for miles and
creaks on hard benches and empty chapel miles. Next to the river, or in a pasture, sitting up
sounds, we heard the happy birds and the flow- against that tree or walking that path, you can
ing river stream at Coeur d’Alene River hear her if you listen close enough. She’s in the
trailer park. Quiet, peaceful. There silence. The Earth’s breath comes slowly in
were few places where we made and slowly out, just faint enough to brush
happy memories that weren’t up against her soul. Whether you’re an
torn apart by his anger. But awakened soul or in the midst of your

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