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James took off his gloves and opened his wool coat. He was glad to be in
the warmth of the little building even if temporarily. It had been a chilly
drive in his beat-up old rental, the heater barely working, and he had
cursed himself all the way from town for going with the budget rental.
A man sat behind a desk at the back of the room, reading. He looked up
at James, carefully put down his magazine on the desk, and stood. He was
very tall and gaunt, and pale as a sheet, and James thought to himself
that somehow seemed appropriate for a man who worked at a cemetery.
James introduced himself. The man seemed to feel no inclination to give
his name in return or to shake hands, and James let it slide. He told
the man why he was there.
"What was the name?" the man asked.
"Bridges" James told him. "Olivia Bridges. I was told she was buried
here."
The man pulled a small, hand-held computer off his desk and typed with
one finger. "Yes. Bridges, Olivia. She is laid to rest in Section 12, plot 22.
God rest her soul."
"How do I get there from here?"
James drove through the huge cemetery, the largest in the city, following
the slightly winding road. He turned at the second intersection, then
followed that down past two more. Halfway down the next he pulled over
and turned off the ignition.
Putting his gloves back on and rebuttoning his coat James walked out
amongst the gravestones. The snow was several inches thick, mostly
unbroken. The skies were steel grey with no differentiation. "Danish
skies" James said to himself. "Or maybe St. Petersburg. Who knows."
But this was neither. This was Indianapolis, the city of his birth.
James stopped. He had no idea where plot 22 would be other than the
fact that the man at the office had told him it was near the center
on the southern edge. But there were many stones. Some were of the
larger, older style. But some were totally flat and impossible to read
even when he was right upon them because of the snow.
"This is shear folly."
He walked between rows, back and forth, loosing track of time. He became
lightheaded and dizzy, his blood pressure sinking down into the basement.
But his heart by some miracle was still beating, something they had
doubted would be the case four years ago.
Then he found it. The stone was of the upright variety, copper colored
and with rounded shoulders. He looked at it. He felt somehow lost and
wondered why he had come here. It had been almost two decades since
he had seen his old violin teacher.
"Hello, Mrs. Bridges. I came to see you."
Back when he was young, faithfully every two weeks, James had taken
the long bus trip through town to study with Mrs. Bridges. Even early
on Mrs. Bridges had been kind to him. She had fixed him up with a used
handmade violin, one that was much better than the machine made one he
had started on. Music had meant so much to him. And Mrs. Bridges was,
for the most part, a patient teacher. She was his mentor. She was his
second mother.
"No, James. Think of them as little bunny rabbits hopping up and down
on the strings." She reached out and lifted his fingers gently off the
fingerboard, and gently lowered them back down. "Little bunny rabbits.
You're clutching too much."
And then, strangely, she gently lowered the neck of the violin and
looked at him.
"James, you have to learn not to clutch so much."
James walked up to the stone. He ran his fingers over it, brushing off
the thin layer of freshly fallen snow. The stone should have been blue,
he thought. Blue to match her eyes. He bent down and kissed the stone.
And then it hit him like a cold blast, the tears so profuse he had to
keep wiping his eyes with his gloves. "Yes" he told her, "I think I am
finally learning. Not to clutch so much. It has taken so long, though.
So long."
The tears finally stopped. He felt empty. He looked up at the gray sky
and at the bare trees, thin and dark. There was virtually no sound.
There should be music, he thought. Vivaldi maybe, L'Inverno. Or maybe
Prokofiev.
He looked back at the stone.
"I don't even know how to thank you. I owe you so much. And I loved you."
He lifted both arms up into the air and closed his eyes. "No more. Let
go. Let it all go."
He began spinning, his face tilted up at the winter sky, spinning
counterclockwise, at first slowly and then more quickly. He let go. His
soul soared upward into the grayness; but past it then, and outward. He
let go. He was with the stars, flying through galaxies.
musickna said:
That's a poignant and moving story, Ed. Very affecting. Brings back similar memories and moments from my own life. :yes:
edwardpiercy said:
Well I was thinking that this was rather similar to "The Dead." But no matter. This was my tribute to her. Thank you, Richard. :up:
Aqualion said:
A very touching story. Gently, without clutching.:up:
dolphin21 said:
Very well written, Edward. Soulful. I remembered once two Russian classics, Dostoevsky and Mikhail Bulgakov. Yes … human is mortal, suddenly.And, it's Peter's sky …
edwardpiercy said:
@ Martin.:D Thanks very much. @ Dizzy.Thank you very much, Dizzy.You know when I wrote my first novel the two writers that were at the back of my mind firstmost were Raymond Chandler and Leo Tolstoy. The Russians so do love their poetry. I admire that. :up:
dolphin21 said:
Yes I love poetry, because "Parler n'a trait a la realite des choses que conimercialement." (с) Stéphane Mallarmé 🙂
edwardpiercy said:
Hmmm. Well Tolstoy made a lot of money, didn't he? Not that he cared much really.
dolphin21 said:
Oh, yes. Tolstoy was not a poor person. Graf, however. And besides, a despot in his own family. But he liked, for exercise ground to plow.To him came his peasant serf, and reported: Sir, plow filed. :yes:Funny man was many years, he learned the essence of religion 🙄 Bhagavad Gita and Lord Krishna he respected.There is a book : Leo Tolstoy and the Vedas.
Pineas2 said:
Sad story. I am now reading Beethoven's brain on my mobile. Downloaded it as a txt-file and use mtext-reader.
edwardpiercy said:
@ Dizzy.Saw a movie about Tolstoy a few months ago, not sure if you know it, called The Last Station.@ Pineas2.Thanks for reading. It's nice to be readed.I know, I just made that word up. :p
dolphin21 said:
Yes, Edward you're right, I have not seen this movie by Michael HoffmanPlease don't take biased towards what I said above. Because it does not mean that I'm not familiar with the genius of Tolstoy. Everything you want to know about him isn't difficult to find on the Internet. The identity of a world scale.The only thing I can say with confidence that every coin two sides, but the truth, as always, somewhere nearby, in the middle… Besides, the Russian state was and still is now, quite extreme, especially for people who can think deeply and widely. Yes, and ordinary people, not easily here. Although.. where well? Probably it this is where we are do not.BTW if you're read about the fate of the Russian Symbolist poets Silver Age, you'll see that few of them died a natural death.
gdare said:
When I saw your post my first thought was: Oh my, this is a long one…I admit that, I am sorry. Sometimes I am impatient. But when I started to read it, it ended so suddenly. I wanted more of it.Nice and well written. I know I would enjoy your novels and books :up:
edwardpiercy said:
@ Darko.I do try to make them as tiny as possible. :pVery glad you liked it, Darko. Maybe you could hit a few of my short stories in the Contents and Updates thingy at the top of the blog. If you want more, that is. Although that stuff is a bit different. If you haven't read it already I would recommend "All My Todays." It's pretty short — also one of my favorites.@ Dizzy.Well Russia — or perhaps I should say Soviet Russia — was tough on artists that is true. As for the way it is now they don't tell us much here. It's like the subject is almost a sealed topic — with a few exceptions.
Stardancer said:
Brought tears to my eyes as I stood with James as he let go, unclutching.Was like I was there.Beautiful.:heart:
edwardpiercy said:
Thank you so much, Star. That means a lot to me. And I'm not just repeating a cliche phrase here — it means a lot. :heart:
gdare said:
Originally posted by edwardpiercy:
Thanks for recommendation, I will read it soon :yes:
dolphin21 said:
Originally posted by edwardpiercy:
You know, Ed, I've long thought that I could tell you all this …I have absolutely no guilt over this whole mess is happening for the past century, the Russian state.As for contemporary art here, I even do not want to give you any links, so as not to shock you. The era postmodern , however. Or.. may postpostmodern.
Stardancer said:
I know you mean it, Edward.And you da' man!:heart:
Aqualion said:
Originally posted by Stardancer:
I second that.:up:
L2D2 said:
That was good. I enjoyed it, and like Dare, didn't want it to end so soon. Is this something you've been contemplating doing Edward? Anyway, thumbs way up as the two movie critics whose names I can't drag up, always said.
edwardpiercy said:
@ Linda.Well I spin every time the mood strikes. :pOkay, seriously, the character of Mrs. Bridges was based on my old teacher. I last saw her in '90 when we had lunch. But I don't know if she is still living, she'd be pushing 80 now. The most recent internet reference to her I've found is from 2004. So, I don't know.Right now I have no plans to visit Indianapolis again.
edwardpiercy said:
@ Martin.Who's the cat that won't cop out When there's danger all about? ED! Right On:p