to the winds

The wind phone was locked: ‘the volume of visitors has upset the neighbors so we can no longer make it available to the public.’

‘Please take the time that you need to grieve today, but don’t share this address with others. Thank you.’

‘We are so sorry for the loss that brought you here. Wishing you peace.’

I had stored up words to say, words that I carried up on the drive there that weighed heavy, up the gravel path and then, missing it, further up into more gravel and nowhere to turn around in the gravel until I reached the house at the mountain-top and turned, and on my way down finally saw it to the left, hidden from the right.

I parked and I walked past the painted stones bearing names and dates, those small monuments among the fading daylilies. I saw the sign. Tested the lock, knowing that it would hold firm.

So much grief in one place, so much grieving.

I had words for someone who could no longer hear them, and words for someone who might hear them if the wind blew west. The two flowed together: one call would make another possible.

Without a space to speak, I remained silent and thought through my words, again, again.

There’s one to the north now, twelve hours away. Maybe I need to go there.

But there’s one to the west, days away. I think I need to follow the wind there.