If I were to die, don’t cry for me.
Honour me, think of me, but don’t cry for me.
If you must cry that is fine,
But know that it is not for me that you cry,
But for you.
I’m fine dear—I’m no longer here.
Our times must come and go.
Some short; some longer so.
Life is about living.
It’s not about how not to die.
So if I were to die, don’t cry for me.
Cry if you must but when you are done:
Cherish me as an experience,
And live more so.
An elegy by Andrew Schiestel.
He knew the flood was coming. No one else in the village did. Ran he ran down the streets of the village yelling at people, informing them of what was to come. The collection of possessions, children and a procession began. More people he informed, running he ran. And on the eastern side of the bay he saw her on a street’s corner. Standing alone she stood, eyes shut, perpendicular. Sleeping she was, while standing. Commotion ensuing and people being informed. He knew this woman. It was the only woman he knew in the village. He’s known her for a long time. He didn’t understand how she was here across the globe nor did he understand how she was nocturnal while standing. The two had an incomplete past and it was easy not to wake her. He had already forgotten her but there she was. More people joined the commotion and the village began its exodus for the mountains; chaotic but timely it was. Time was running out. He knew he had time and she did not. Sleeping she was. Easy it was to leave her behind. Moments left, the decision replete with unrest. A flood ensuing. And bolted he ran up the eastern side of the bay, north, grabbed her shoulders and shook. A man and a woman on a street’s corner, a village emptying, a flood coming. One shake is all it took: A jolt of a shake. Standing she stood. Her eyes opened, consciousness flooded her face, eye lids flickered, pupils dilating when she recognized his, lips curling, released she felt, her arms stretched out and fell she did, onto him, into him, her arms wrapped around him, her entire body limp with trust, hugging him so. The flood was coming.
I love walking around a city the day after arrival. The first day I’m lost in La-La Land. The second day I’m still in La-La Land but don’t feel as lost. By the fourteenth day, I yearn again for La-La Land.
The hero image is of boats shored on the beach of a village known largely only to the Spanish named Cabo de Gata.
La-La Land is available for purchase as artwork at Ithacabound.com.