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He was no longer there.
Evie brushed her fingers across the chair’s battered arms.
Two tears streamed down her face. “Oh, Jericho, Jericho.”
“Memphis?”
Memphis thought he’d heard his name, but he couldn’t be sure. Exhausted, half-delirious, grief-stricken, he was no longer sure of anything. But then he thought he heard it a second time. “Memphis? Where are you?”
He looked around wildly. “Isaiah? Isaiah?”
“Memphis! Memphis!”
The sound carried down into the crater and bounced off the sides, echoing, overlapping until it sounded like the call of seagulls. Memphis ran to the steep incline. “Isaiah?”
Memphis reached the top. Isaiah stood on the dusty road, blinking against the first rays of sun. He’d returned. He was alive and standing in the middle of the desert like hope.
Slowly, he smiled. “Hi, Memphis.”
THE DEAD
The dead do not rest. Not really.
They hum in the air above the empty seat at the table.
They perch at the window, drawn to the light.
They make their peace with regret and wish that it, too, could be buried deep in the earth.
They walk across the battlefields of Antietam, Gettysburg, Fort McHenry, Wounded Knee. They watch as the people struggle to form a more perfect union and secure the blessings of liberty.
Sometimes their sins stretch like a shadow over those they have wronged.
Sometimes the kindnesses they planted bloom in the next generation.
And so on.
And so on.
And so…
We go on.
We are remembered, for a time.
All is ephemeral.
All is eternal.
The dead come to us however they can.
They are with us. Always.
Hear what they have to say:
You are the stories.
Make a better history.
