Cold Stones that Ignite the Fire WIthin

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic

I walked among the silent headstones that still stand tall amidst the growing weeds and wildflowers, in varying states of neglect and decay. Forgotten and abandoned. Buried legions of faded faces and silenced voices.

COLD STONES THAT IGNITE THE FIRE WITHIN

By Al Garcia

I walked among the silent headstones that still stand tall amidst the growing weeds and wildflowers, in varying states of neglect and decay.  Forgotten and abandoned.  Buried legions of faded faces and silenced voices.  Buried memories, waning and ignored.  Once a field of living dreams, now deserted and discarded remnants of my past. 

Cold stones where once beat caring hearts.  Withering and dying flowers where once bloomed so many loving souls.  Untended, unkempt and forsaken.  Lonely fields of solitude, surrounded by the serenity of timelessness.  And I walk among and between the headstones and the gravestones, and I feel the chill of frozen time rising from the earth into every part of me, like hands reaching out to grasp the very essence of my soul.

I hear the cries of buried ancestors beseeching me to hear their cautionary screams, forewarning and admonishing me of things to come that time did not allow to be.  I hear the muted screams of unfulfilled dreams and feel the agony of unfinished conflicts and uncompleted lives.  I hear the wind crying, and the muted whispers of stolen and unrealized lives and unsatisfied souls – taken too young to have lived or loved, but brave enough die.  And I feel a coldness consume me as the smoldering sun rains down upon the buried souls beneath the wilting and shriveling grass and weeds that blanket the forgotten field of forsaken dreams.

So many dreams.  So many casualties of fortune’s fate.  So many parts of me.  And I feel the strength and the courage, the fear and the passion, and the guilt and the elation, as I make my way across the field of crumbling and disintegrating tombstones.  I feel I am a part of dreams once dreamt by those I did not know, and the remnant of minds that saw beyond tomorrow but never reached the boundary of the day that was to be.  I am because of them.  I feel because of them.  And I am touched by them, as I walk among the silence and serenity that has withstood the tempests and the whirlwinds of time. 

So many fading and tilting headstones, speaking to what once had been and of what could have been.  It is a feeling and sensation that permeates my body and my mind, when I begin to understand that stolen and abandoned dreams never die or fade away, they simply wait until the seeds of yesterday appear, and the dream ignites again a passion and a hunger to see beyond the rainbow, and beyond the atrocities and brutalities of having lived at a time and in a place that did not see or recognize the reflection of creation. 

And as I walked away from the field of grief and sorrow, I began to realize that dreams and memories never die – they are like seeds blown by the wind -- scattered and sowed, then tended and nurtured by time and patience, into blooming and flourishing wonders left behind to thrive in hearts and souls that hear the silent cries from cold stones that ignite the fire within.


Submitted: May 24, 2021

© Copyright 2021 A.Garcia. All rights reserved.

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