Poetic Short Story

Past Connections

May I have your attention?

I make mention, as is convention, of a retrospective memory:

Once I wandered in a wordless world.

I could not read or write.

All I knew was what I saw and heard without reading words, only reading minds of different kinds of people as best I could. That is to say there was a way of communicating by emulating their speech of spoken sounds—hisses and a click, clack percussive pounding in their mouths.

There was an obvious rhythm in the tune of their tones, as if their ancient ancestors beat big stones with strong sticks drumming the

tick-et-a tick-et-a tack,

tick-et-a tick-et-a tack

smack! into their DNA, making what they say easy on the ears but hard for the head.

What they said was hardly comprehended in my shallow-minded shell but I could tell they were sincere. My fear was that inferior hearing was interfering with my cleverness; nevertheless the unwritings which I audibly read led me to believe in their wonder worlds.

In particular, I remember the shaman mother from a shanty town. Down and down she took me to a valley drenched in desert where there were baobabs by the way we walked. She talked of some sickened tree-stalk bearing the fruit of the morrow—the beginning and the end of sorrow.

It had a name; I had heard it once before and what it held in store for those who chose to count it for naught. To this day, I still can’t say it correctly so excuse me for my nameless nomenclature. She spoke it, though, and spoke of it—intuitive to her native tongue and culture. Kind and caring she showed me the tree and branch still daring to live, still living to dream. My fingers felt the feeble wing whose ever singing song of hope helped me to cope with uncertainty and pain.

Then it began to rain.

The shaman mother said it was the spirits of the dead, their tears searing the soul of the branch to the roll of the thunder.

My mind in wonder finally understood.

The land was alive and thrived on hope, with past generations influencing present nations and kingdoms of nature. Shaman mother showed me what words can’t communicate. Our unsung ancestors are among us, sending us blessings of rain to soothe the pain of life.

So as I wandered in a wordless world where I could not read or write, I learned the language of the lost and found the connection to my past at last.

—DGM, 15 May 2015