The Will and the Wilds

by Charlie N. Holmberg

The crowd is abrupt and busy, and stepping into it is like falling into deep water, with the same currents and garbled sounds.

I pay no attention to the folk, for I’ve learned, mostly, not to care for the opinion of others, as they have never cared for mine.

What is a soul if not an extension of the heart? Grandmother had once said to me. To lose one’s soul is to lose what makes one human. It’s no better than death.

Humans attribute their emotions and their ability to experience them to their hearts, but hearts are simple flesh, just like all the body’s organs. It’s the soul that hosts those sensations, and the soul alone.

Maekallus is always there, lurking in my thoughts. I think of him in the half seconds between my father’s breaths, in the spaces between sentences in my books, and in the silence between footfalls when I walk to and from the house.

The ancient trees are brilliant in their symphony of color. A person can walk among them and feel as if they’ve walked into the sunset itself. Ash trees will soon wear crowns of gold, and maples will burst into tangible flame. Then the leaves will drop, and for days it will be like a rainbow of snowfall, and it will be beautiful.

Of all the injury I’ve suffered, none of it compares to the misery of that disintegrating hope.