There Will Be No Miracles Here: A Memoir

by Casey Gerald

I want to say that I was smiling, but I’m pretty sure that’s just the now me trying to make the then me seem tougher than I was. I want to say that I felt peace—the peace that comes when someone finally admits the thing you’ve long suspected. But between peace and emptiness, the line is thin. Maybe that’s what it was. The beginning of an emptying. That’s the image I see now, the one that feels true. A little boy with a heavy sack on his shoulder. He’s trying to get somewhere but doesn’t know where exactly, or how. This sack is so heavy he’s starting to limp and he can’t go any further. He stops on the side of the trail and sits down on a rock. The cool night wind feels gentle on his aching neck. He unties the heavy sack and looks at all the things he’s been carrying. He smiles. No wonder this walk has been so hard. He decides to leave some of the things here on the trail—the heaviest things, the jagged things, the things whose use he doesn’t know. These are the things that he takes out first. He sees a stick nearby and uses it to dig a hole next to the rock. In the hole, he buries the things in his sack that hurt too much to carry. He doesn’t know he will need them later. Doesn’t know that they will wash up in the next rains. For now, all that matters is that his limp is gone and his sack is light and he’s on his way—I’m free.