The man was sweating lightly, feeling trembly. He remembered.
He remembered.
He had been walking from the shop to the farm, where his son was to bring him his lunch. His wife always wanted him to have something fresh, and since he liked her cooking, that was fine. He never knew what combination of his children would show up, and he usually made bets with himself on who and how many it would be. Since school was back in session, it was usually just one or two of the older boys.
He had stopped to check out the balsams – something wasn’t looking right about the three year olds. He didn’t see anything – no insects or growths, and he made a note to have Jamie or Jon to check the soil. They may have been placed too closely, now that they had grown and spread out. They didn’t look crowded, but you couldn’t a;ways tell by looks.
Ne bent a needle, and put it to his nose, then grimaced at the sharpness the scent sent through him. Oh well. He’d best get to the office at the Farm, and get his lunch. That should fill up the hollow place that was starting to ache.
It had been a long and busy morning up yonder.
He ambled on, passing into the spruces. They were his favorites, for shape, for scent, and for color. They were ready for harvest this winter, and he was already getting gentle inquiries for bigger orders. His brothers still thought people were crazy to buy cut trees to take into their house until they were fire food, but they were renewable and profitable, if only for about three weeks a year. But what a profit!
Whew! There was the office! Sure seemed like it had taken a while to get there today. He was exhausted! But then, he hadn’t exactly been in a hurry, and he couldn’t be late since his lunch wasn’t there yet.
By the time he got to his desk, he was sweating lightly, and trying to remember what he had been lifting up yonder the was making his shoulders ache. Probably cases of books, although he didn’t remember any specifically. It was just something that usually happened when he was there.
He sat at his desk, literally pushing papers from one stack to another. There was nothing that needed immediate attention. Nothing that really needed his attention at all, besides maybe soil samples from around those balsams. Jamison could take care of that. He wrote a note so he wouldn’t forget, then smiled as he heard someone approach whistling
It was Jamie. He’d know any sound that boy (young man, not a boy for a while now) made anywhere. And it sounded like he was alone, too, which was rare enough for either father or son, let alone both of them.
He stood up to greet Jamison, – and was forcefully thrown backward. By what, he didn’t know. Just that it was sudden, it was strong, and it had pushed him hard enough to topple him and his chair.
And then he was walking through the woods, following or seeking the sound and source of indescribable music.
As if the clear crystal air itself was singing, without words. Vibrating with sound. High pristine notes, low deep chords that could be felt maybe more than heard.
The harmony was perfect.
No, the harmonies were perfect.
Invisible strings strummed by invisible hands.
Notes, tones, and chords from the air itself, no words but those perfect harmonies.
He had to find the instruments and the music.
And so he had come to the bridge, with its singing, playing cables, but no song.
There were people coming and going on the bridge. Some ran forward to meet joyfully those waiting, some came away quickly from the bridge, eager for their next best thing.
There were people – masses of people, standing alone or in groups all along the bridge. Some were saying ‘hello’ and some ‘good-bye’ and some nothing at all, just watching.
Was there someone watching for him?
He slowed his walk forward to search the crowd. He saw–
He saw many faces, of different degrees of familiarity. Former co-workers and employees, never quite forgotten, but never a whole portion of his life. Casual friends, old acquaintances. He saw them, and they saw him, but any greeting or recognition was that od “used to be.”
He saw his mother (as beautiful as she used to be) and his father (as strong and sturdy as he had used to be) and they both smiled and waved to him, but they were surrounded by children (unborn and stillborn and too-early born, and too shortly living siblings?) and he could see that they –all of them – were content.
Happy and content, not sure why they were at the bridge just now, but they were together and so they were happy. They were there for him, but they were not waiting for him.
His eyes searched the crowd, looking and looking for someone looking for him, and there was no one there of that description.
He was approaching the Bridge, and there was no one there for him.
It was then, just before stepping away from the ground onto all bridge, that he became frightened, and turned and ran.
He would NOT go to where no one waited for him. They would be waiting for him to get home. His son was bringing him lunch. How had he come to this bridge? Why was he here?
This was not his place.
Definitely wasn’t his time to be here or – someone (did he know who?) – someone would be looking for him, waiting, if this was where he was supposed to be.
He took fright and he ran.
He had run and run and run, until he ran into the fog, and the more he ran the thicker the fog became and the more lost and alone he felt, until he had stopped to catch his tortured, ragged breath by leaning his hand against the tree trunk while he tried to solve his mysteries.
He opened his eyes and knew his truth. He had been the one looking for someone. His friend of many years. His lifetime friend; his forever friend.
The friend who had been beside him all along, but that he could only see by going into the Mysts.
His life, and his friend, were here.
His life, and his friend, were now.
The bridge faded, for a time, until time,into the fog, until the only thing before his eyes were the fog through the trees, and Love.
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