Five Minutes
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It was 9:40 PM.
I stepped outside into the chilly night air
for my final cigarette before retiring.
I fingered the top button
of my long-sleeved, red flannel, checkered shirt,
and pulled up the collar
to keep the chill off the back of my neck.
It was cold.
Even the tree frogs were silent
for the first time in weeks.
Fall was here,
and browned oak leaves and myriads of dry pine needles
covered the ground,
shown only by the small light on the lamp post
at the corner of the property,
some fifty feet away.
I knew that soon
the ground would sparkle white
with the frozen breath of Grandfather.
Not even a slight breeze rustled the dusty, musky carpet,
a pleasant change from the grueling constant winds
of the past four days.
I inhaled deeply of the smoke,
held it briefly
and then released it,
watching the plumes rise —
plumes not only from the tobacco,
but also from the warmth of the breath
forcing it aloft.
A lone wolf cried —
deep voiced and recognizable
by its tremolo —
and was quickly joined by that of another,
and then other voices,
coyote voices,
both young and adult.
A cacophony of tones grew louder and louder,
more urgent and even fearful and terrifying;
distant tones signifying hierarchical warnings or fightings,
perhaps over a late night snack.
Neighboring dogs joined in the symphony,
from soprano to baritone.
And then a solitary gun shot
from somewhere.
A few final yelps
...
and all was silent.
I sucked in another warm drag of smoke, tilted my head back, and offered the incense to the gods of the night, carrying the Spirit of the fallen to happier meadows and fields of plenty. I looked into the blackness of the cloudless Dakota heavens and beheld the icy brilliance of millions of stars, usually not seen in a more polluted sky. I closed my eyes and drifted.
I was once again in the neighborhood family restaurant that my friend (a Spirit brother along the journey of life) and I had just left an hour before. And then I remembered.
Upon arriving, and waiting to be shown to our table, another couple was waiting to pay their bill before leaving. A young man, late twenties or early thirties, saw us come in. He glanced at me; I at him. Something stirred in my chest. His friend, an older man perhaps in his fifties or sixties, had turned his attention to the cashier. Were they father and son? Uncle and nephew? Or was their relationship something more than blood and genes?
The young man looked away and then back at me. Was there just the faint indication of a smile? Some sparkle in his eyes? I felt a guarded curve cross my lips. I fought to keep from allowing my breathing to become faster. I couldn't take my eyes off of HIM. He struck a throbbing, resonate chord within my very being.
My partner, my lover, my companion, my ... friend and brother ... and I have been together for nearly five decades, with a decade difference in our ages, my being the younger. We've been monogamous now for more than thirty-one years, but he knows that my eyes still wander. I know he saw what was going on between the young man and me, though he hasn't, and probably won't, mention it.
I can't get the vision of his beautiful eyes, his charming smile, out of my head — the young man with whom I exchanged supposed guarded glances. I knew we'd meet again, but over the many years since, and the many trips to the neighborhood restaurant, he's never returned. Perhaps he was just a trick … or a consort for the older gentleman, never our paths to cross again. With a sigh, I wish him well.
The noise of silence assaulted my inner-ears,
there on the front steps
in the cold night air.
I was hearing my own heartbeat,
my own pulse.
I took another drag
and then extinguished the burning sacred tobacco.
I knew I had to write this down.
I came inside and began.
The noise of silence continues
and my heart beats fast
...
once again.
And yet again
with the increasing crescendo
of the strumming and the thrumming,
and the beating and the pulsing and the rhythm
of my native Sioux drum.
And that noise of the silence
of my own Vision Quest.
The writing will come later.
Namasté they say —
a half a world away.
Kloshe kahkwa.
Lakota say.
Posted: 05/25/12