When the past no longer illuminates the future, the spirit walks in darkness. - Alexis de Tocqueville

Between the peaks of the Sierra Ranges, the sun burned
softly as it slowly dropped off beyond the verdant spine of the sleepy village. Yellow-orange beams and mauves dappled the bluish span that stretched out until it disappeared beyond the jutting cliffs and hilltops which elbowed Sierra Blanca from the windy coast. Grazing fields and farms dotted the hilly landscape and the river, mightily crisscrossing it, shone in light and shadows. The Adagio River climbed and fell through the wooded uplands, terraced hills, then down the gently rolling valleys to the enormous plain until it finally flowed out to the sea.

Somewhere within the glorious beauty of the Sierra, Rainforest Hill projected a still picture of loss and grief. Settled on top of a lonely hill in the far north, it was covered by rainforest trees. Often said that the wind was in those trees, whispering to the life-force that had been part of the earth and weaving the memories altogether then suspending them in time – the reason why it was fondly called Memories on the Hill.

No matter how much memory it can contain, Rainforest Hill will always be a bleak me moiré of incredible emptiness and despair. He momentarily gazed on the creepy hole where the coffin was to be lowered. It was like the old unwanted film that he excruciatingly buried down the unconscious arena of his soul yet had failed to completely carry it out.

He scanned the congregation that fanned in closely around the grave… hoping to find Timara. Relatives, family friends, people from the Institute and different social bureaus, acquaintances, and people from Vincent’s social and personal circle sympathized with them. Since the first day of the wake, they came in and out, bringing flowers and cards, comforting gestures and consoling words. Though many of them were unfamiliar faces, the warmth of sympathy hadn’t made it any less. He settled his gaze upon his younger sister.  

Chelsea cleared her throat, swallowed hard and painstakingly struggled to read the piece of paper which trembled between her fingers. Then read a few lines of the eulogy, “If life ends with death, love never ends. It goes on and on for as long as we hold on to the
memories…” her voice trailed off and she began to cry again. An older woman in a lilac babushka put an arm around her.

Holding on is not what we need, he thought flatly and looked up briefly. He met Auntie Phoena’s eyes. She watched him in the same calm and detached manner she had watched him all his life, as if she could never quite understand why he was there. The color on her face was as faint as the babushka which was folded diagonally on her head and tied under her chin.

He looked down again on the cold coffin that wedged the distance between them. It contained Vincent. Anger and guilt muddled up inside him and he thought any minute it would detonate his last shell of control which terrified him. It had always been this way. Losing control was losing direction and losing direction meant losing in touch with reasons thus detouring towards the personal grail he
claimed as his own… for the family he had grew up in and his own family with his wife and five-year old Ty.