It was on the fifth day in the fourth month in the sixth year that the rains came and washed away the house, and the Abyssinian cat, and the small blue Fiat that Edie had gotten as a gift from Zaide Ben.
Now barren, the hills that saw out over the Great Lake were as they were before, which is to say: people-less and quiet; both grateful and lonely, which is to say: they were quite like we are now.
And then, as there was stillness from without, so there came much to our surprise – having ourselves been so quiet for so long – a great noise from within…
(A booming and a rumbling and the clattering and the keening, and great caterwauls.)
Who can say if the sounds were meant, or whether they were, just as when we are bitten or stung, reflexive?
A thing with no more meaning than the sound a stone makes when it falls upon a stone floor.
“No, there must have been a purpose to all the destruction,” we say.
We are sensible and we look for sense wherever we go. And so no minute passes without us assigning some thing a name or a reason.
But reasons sometimes don’t exist, and names don’t always apply, and though this brings us pain, (this un-reasonable-ness, I mean to say) we try our best to sit in the silence of a Story that is bigger and wiser than all we can imagine.
And so we, restless, resort to imagining.
To creating in our heads a world we can’t possess, or even believe with any certainty.
Until when, on the fifth day in the fourth month in the tenth year the rains come again.
Not to wash away, but to wet the ground.