Winter Part I

My vision has been obscured by melancholy horror
Familiar walls, begin to crumble

I don’t feel his love,
Far past the end of my nose, I see not what is in front of me; I only see the end
I don’t feel his love. I fear there is none for him to send.

In my alternate existence, I am an elderly Lutheran Minister named Jan Nyvquist. I have a small, but still shrinking congregation on an island called Threnody, off the northern coast of Gotland, Sweden.

PART I

Saturday afternoon had never inspired such spiritual rebellion. I was sitting in my grandfather’s rocking chair, smoking my pipe as was my usual custom, when I suddenly came to the sad realization that I could no longer hear God. Not after this last storm. It had been a downright awful winter. Firewood was scarce. My hearing had been damaged after a bout of pneumonia. It had been a dreadfully devastating winter. It had been a lonely winter. Once again in my grandfather’s old rocking chair, I fumble through my pockets, looking for a key. What happened to this key? Did it ever exist? I couldn’t remember what this key unlocked. It must not exist. I looked at my pipe, long and hard, and decided that what was gnawing away at me was the thought that at some point, this key did exist. However, I couldn’t be sure if this key existed solely in my unconscious, or if there was indeed some tangible manifestation of my imagination that upon deposit in to my pocket had immediately, magically disappeared. The sudden realization of so many possibilities hit me hard. I increase my fumbling.
Finally, I pull out a book of matches. The Cigarettes lived in the desk drawer. After five unsuccessful, frustrating attempts, I finally succeed in lighting a cigarette. I take a long inhale and an even longer exhale.
The snow falls swiftly and surely outside. It falls fast, hard, like my beating heart, on the prowl for company. Cigarette in hand, I stand and walk toward the bay window. I’m not holding my cigarette. I’m holding His cigarette. Midway to the window, I drop his cigarette. We watch together as it dies slowly on the floor. We have the same look on our faces. It is the look of a man who has just been made aware of the fact that he has been watching things die slowly for an eternity.

NEXT PART II: HELGA FUGLESANG