For the Reader:
The following collection of letters is meant to embody the lives of those who lie beneath unmarked graves. These people, to us, have no names, no history and no legacy; but in reality, they too had hopes, dreams and a story to share. They too feared death while both loving and hating life. Their struggles and their joys were as real as our own.
These reflections share that, even in life “the last thing one discovers in composing a work is what to put first” – Blaise Pascal. The difference between the writers of these letters and you and I who read them, is that they already know “what to put first” while we are still searching.
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Dear ______________,
You do not know me. To you, I am a stone in the ground that once met a chisel; that chisel named me 42. A number has nothing to do with who I am. In fact, I am terrible with numbers. I was a well behaved youth, respectful of my elders, but no matter how I tried, it took me twice as long to learn to count as it took any other child.
Since I could not understand numbers, my father decided that school was not for me. At the age of twelve, I learned to tend the fields and the sheep but my true passion was painting. I could blend yellow, red and blue to bring the most perfect sunrise to life on a canvas. My mother once asked me to paint an image of the blessed Madonna over the entrance to our home so as to beg for her sacred protection. In the fields, I constantly reflected on the beauty of the various shades of maturity that the grapes underwent. With every spare Lira I could earn, I purchased paints and brushes, papers and canvas. I believed that my life was meant to paint the earth.
Although I was never rich, my childhood was pleasant. My mother had a way of making bread and cheese into a meal for kings. I helped her in every way I could and joined her for church every Sunday. My father was often absent for work but that was fine with me since he viewed me as a distracted child who struggled with the labour of men. Oftentimes, he would send me to simply watch the sheep graze, which was my favourite employment, since it allowed time to admire the clouds sketched gracefully across the heavens and the jagged mountain tips dipped in snow. These images were my favourite to reproduce.
One morning, I was particularly distracted by one of the most beautiful sunrises I had ever witnessed. It had rained the night before and as the first rays of sunrise reflected off the water droplets, colour came to life in every corner. Delicate rainbows seemed to glow and leap delightfully from every tender leaf. Every tree, every bush and every flower was graced with the impressive perfume of a fresh, spring rain and everything seemed full of a new life. I was stupefied by the beauty of the dawn, infatuated with its elegance, and immediately sat upon the nearest stone hoping to withdraw my canvas and transfer the life of daylight onto its rough form.
Unbeknownst to me, a snake had sought shelter beneath the stone upon which I had chosen to relax. I never saw the snake, but rather, I felt it. I had frightened the creature when I perched upon the slightly unstable stone and the stone had rolled atop the snake yet allowed its mouth to angrily shoot out toward my wrist as I reached, with my right hand, for the canvas that rested in my sack beside my lunch. The pain struck me instantly and then I felt shock. I immediately pulled my wrist up towards my chest and gripped it tightly with my left hand. My wrist began to throb. I scrambled, doggedly to my feet, sweat dripping from my forehead, as I nervously and anxiously started to walk in the direction of home. I knew I needed help. I made it no more than fifteen meters before I fell to the ground. Due to my weakened right arm, I was not able to properly catch myself and my head bounced off one of the larger rocks that caught me. My head did not hurt me but I noticed blood that began to paint the dirt around me. I stood once more but, again, could only walk a short distance before tripping on an old evergreen branch.
I do not know for how long I endured the pattern of tripping and standing, shuffling and crawling, but, eventually, I could no longer manage the struggle. I lay on the grass, still too far from home for my screams to be heard. I began to contemplate the idea of death. Death had always been a terrifying subject simply because it was unknown. Nevertheless, my mind did not want to be afraid. The pain had become so strong in my right arm that I could barely see. The wound was becoming part of me as I was becoming part of the earth, the earth which was coloured by my blood and stained by my sweat.
In church I had been taught about heaven, a place of unquestionable beauty. As my vision went white, I forgot the miseries of the earth and the discomforts of poverty. I visualized painting for la Madonna, painting her figure at rest beside one of the windows of heaven. Through that window she would see my mother’s beautiful chestnut, brown hair wrapped in a black frame, her charcoal eyes no longer able to produce tears as she graces my small, solemn grave with a single, spring flower wrapped with my painting supplies. I fantasized decorating the white walls of the home of Saint Peter with life-like images of his favourite journeys and conceptualized the illustrations that Saint Michael would one day use to inspire the South. The pictures I realized became more and more beautiful by the second until I could no longer feel pain, I could only feel joy and peace, the sweet symmetry of eternity.
My friend, this letter is meant not to fill you with sadness, but rather to give you hope. Death may hurt for a moment but it does not deserve the fear that we so often associate with it. Death is liberation; it is the provider of new dreams, it is an art in and of itself that opens your eyes to see the world for what it truly is: an ever changing canvas. I spent my short life seeking to capture moments on paper, trying to trap them and covet them when I should have embraced them in their evolution. If I had known this before, I would have shared my art with those outside my family; I would have tried to teach them the beauty of the exciting dynamic in which we lived.
There are those who lust after the here and now, they hoard it to themselves. Upon their death, they are buried beneath a lively, decorated stone, but a stone nonetheless; they are not content with anything less elaborate. I, however, am overjoyed to now be named 42. The simplicity of my headstone marks the balance between the complexity of my life and the harmony I found after death; both of which could never be described in a single image. I no longer dream of painting, but rather of being painted. Someday, my stone will disappear in the earth in the same way that my body did and I will finally become a natural part of the most sophisticated work of art which I have ever been blessed enough to admire.
Sincerely,
A single shade of one of many colours which has, over time, painted the earth
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Short Stories of a Traveler 