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April 10, 2020

44 of 47

As I turned to leave the house that I had had the locksmith gain access to, I saw keys mounted on the wall.

Lots of them.

I took a picture of them. I had been told the fact that my sibling had ceased to lock her home in downtown Peekskill, and so the police locked it when they removed her body. And no one had any key to get back in. It was hung on the wall.

Her tenant had found the one key she used, her car key, on the front porch floor, apparently flung there never to be used again.

A week later, I was alone in silence that morning, as she was then, in fact as I am again now. And we were both, and I am now, thinking of death. Neither of us could not think about it. It was happening, or had happened, and it was the reason why we were there. Closer than we had been in the 18 years since I had last seen her.

Today, in the 2,000 year reliving of another death, many are closer than they have ever been to it. Today, our entire world is bent and distorted in an effort to deny its presence, so many focus on it. The “Good” in Good Friday is an odd oxymoronic twist of time travel. That Friday then, that day in my sibling’s empty room filled with a hoarder’s life, was in no way “Good”.

Sure, time travel to Easter, or to whatever connection with her that I may have (or not) might be more than just “Good”, it is the fulcrum of life itself. But no, 100 generations ago, 2 1/2 years ago, it was not a “Good” day.

In all the remaking of an ancient death, life is reflected upon by Jesus. Like my sibling he had the time to try to register it’s mystery to where he was. Like the keys, the note I had sent him 7 years ago, found left open under a lit table lamp over many that remained unopened, my sister had clearly reviewed her death before causing it.

There is no superiority given to the survivor. There are many questions about unused keys, about what transitions – this, to that. There is only one mitigation, Faith. There is no Instagram video of Easter, so it is, for us, Faith-based.

So it was for Emily Dickinson, too. She was alone in her room for 30 years of writing. And thinking. She did not end herself, no one ended it for her, but it’s end was fully vetted and embraced by a mind in full engine. As alone as my sister. As alone as I am now.

A Wife — at daybreak I shall be —

Sunrise — Hast thou a Flag for me?

At Midnight, I am but a Maid,

How short it takes to make a Bride —

Then — Midnight, I have passed from thee

Unto the East, and Victory —

Midnight — Good Night! I hear them call,

The Angels bustle in the Hall —

Softly my Future climbs the Stair,

I fumble at my Childhood’s prayer

So soon to be a Child no more —

Eternity, I’m coming — Sire,

Savior — I’ve seen the face — before!”

2 Comments leave one →
  1. Larry Roadman permalink
    April 10, 2020 10:39 am

    I will miss these, Duo.

    • April 10, 2020 10:44 am

      This series ends Monday: But I have decided to keep the TV off and do something every morning, unprompted beyond just posting, but I need it…LOVE TO YOU

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