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Wm. Anthony
Connolly
ALPHABET OF GRACE (AN EXCERPT)
The thing to remember is the
narrative is not your life. It is your story though.
It is vertebrae by vertebrae your standing tall. It is
your spine.
For some we are simply
ghosts, lingering, unknowable; passing through we cling to narrative
fleetingly, before leaving without an impression. Glimpsed, misunderstood:
figments. Still, others we trace, the shape of hearts and live within their
soul as intercession, as thoughts, prayers; we are answers. Eleventh hour,
New York minute, in the beginning. We are answers, flesh, blood rag bone
shops of story, a narrative solely and part of another's story wholly.
Holy.
Sometimes we're
questions to others. Our ghost likes to travel. Limning stories others will
tell, haunting their biographies, their histories, the revelries. Mostly,
mainly, we annotate our own leaves from root to branch, from thicket to
preserve. From the freshly hewn to Methuselah. When we are told trees,
cross-sectioned, write the years in rings chronicling the lean, the fat, we
have no doubt. We too find ourselves deep in loam, reaching, sheltering, and
leaving things behind for others to tell. Pulp our narrative and pass it
around in a Chautauqua of trees.
Read the entire essay in the Fall/Winter 2005 Issue.
Copyright
© by Wm. Anthony Connolly 2005. All rights reserved.
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