Dead Letters

"Bartleby, the Scrivener", that oh so famous work by Herman Melville, of the White Whale fame (that book is a good read; the fame is deserved, I suppose) ends will a rumination on letters that will never get read.  I have always liked this idea, of writing words no one will read.  Google suggests to me that these words, here at least, will get read, however (Hello, Denmark!). And so, today, this morning, I wrote words elsewhere, in the snow. At least, I wrote letters, standing in for words, perhaps with a shape or two.
I was tantalized by the idea of the impermanence of it all. Writing in snow, doomed to melt.  It's a public place, really, so someone might read my msg. No matter, it isn't addressed to the public.  This is not all, however. Sometime later, on the squash court (with a small lead, and looking to win), I was momentarily overtaken by the enormity of a moment in history, on that self same squash court, where I had failed to secure untold future happiness for myself. In my defence, I had no idea at the time that my decisions would come back and haunt me. I simply made the choice, a small one at the time, according to what I though was right. An innocent (seemingly so) question asked, and an innocent (really innocent, I had no idea) answer given. I was doomed, it would appear, at a later date, to magnify this mistake by maintaining what I thought was a proper silence, at a time when I was also distracted by affairs of my own. Again, I had no idea my future happiness (my god what happiness it could have been! I quake to think of it, nerves a-jangle, heart racing),  hung in the balance, else I would have spoke. Alas, clarity in hindsight is a difficult burden to bear.
So, there I was, on the squash court, with my small lead, looking to win, when the full extent of what I had done (by failing to do) hit me.  I reeled. I felt faint, nauseous, and I lost all sense of focus or drive.  Soon, I sat at a 5 point deficit, my opponent serving for game point.
How did I fare, gentle reader? I gathered my wits, and I accepted the the sheer stupidity of my innocent answers, and my innocent silences. I decided to fight, not to lose. I gathered my wits and my resolve, and I came back, flawlessly, to win, 5 points straight, no errors, for a 15-14 game, to me. A glorious victory, and the best thing to happen to me in days (It has been a decidedly long week).
What, we might inquire, has this to do with writing in the snow? Easy. I realized that innocent answers and silences have served me no good (ruined me, truth be told), and I questioned the wisdom of impermanent writing. A sharpie, purchased hastily, fixed that.  Permanence, for msgs., for me, thank you.  It is there, my msg., in black ink. Someday, it might fade, or some well meaning city employee will remove it with a harsh chemical bath, I suppose. But it is not large, and they might miss it.  The weather will have at it, true. After, everything is impermanent. But sharpie ink has staying power, so I've cast my lot in with it, for the time being. And a good thing, too, as the sun (glorious sun, shining to celebrate the smashing of my opponent on the court, I presume) had begun to melt my original msg. in the snow.
I have realized another thing, thanks to my stunning victory and humbled opponent.  That the grey world of loss and death that has recently been mine is also impermanent. I could stay in it, but to be honest, I would prefer not to.  There is a very interesting life ahead of me (some might claim it to be an awfully big adventure indeed), and I suppose I ought to do my best to live it.
My return to children's lit., begun with The Hobbit, bolstered by Peter and Wendy, some 100 years old next year (I cannot thank you enough for that, really; it is wonderful, and I mean to cherish it all the years of my life), and continued today in what can only be describe as an Odyssey of book buying (a copy of Peter Pan for myself, The complete Narnia stories, and a book of science fiction strangely, but somehow fittingly, titled Her Pilgrim Soul) has taught me that innocence cannot be maintained, but that life, after all, goes on.
Perhaps, like Max, it is time to realize that the make believe world (for him the Wild Things, for me the past and memories) is less important than the real (for him, his family, for me, the present moment, and forward). Still, I would appreciate the company, should someone care to join me in the upcoming big adventure.  I no longer fear the abyss, and you are more than welcome to come along.
Still, all things considered, I may, upon returning home, allow myself a moment to grieve on the shores of the sea, and remember those I have lost. I said to someone I might, and I owe them that. And more. But I can give them that, at least.