It's Still Life

Liturgy for a Long Absence — Cagnes-sur-Mer, 1836 – 1841
Where Waiting Is Believing

I. The Winter That Settled
Winter settled into the stone cottage
like a tenant who refuses to leave.
The vines are bare,
brittle,
skeletal.
Their fingers scratching at the sky
and demanding warmth
the season refuses to give.

Even the small angelic statues
in the garden grimace at the cold,
their stone faces asking
why did we ever believe in spring?

II. The Bicycle and the Coat Tails
Felreil left this morning,
his scarf and coat tails flying,
a figure of motion and purpose
as he pedalled toward the gendarmerie
to renew their residency permits.

Paperwork, he said.
Formalities.
I will be back before the shadows lengthen.

But the shadows have lengthened.
And lengthened again.
And the winter light has drained
from the sky.

Brigid waits.
Listens for the sound of his bicycle.
The familiar creak of its wheels.
The rattle of its chain.
The whistle of a man
who believes that papers can be fixed,
and that the law
is just another form of weather.

III. The Arithmetic of Waiting
She counts the minutes
in increments of worry.

How long does it take to queue at a desk?
How long does it take to explain
that you are no threat?
Not a vagrant,
not a name on a list.

How long does it take to realise
that the rules have changed,
that the official has a new stamp.
That yesterday’s charge
carries a new price?

She counts possible delays:
the rain that has started,
the tire has punctured,
the bicycle carried him
into the arms of another.

IV. The Vigil of Listening
Brigid stands at the window
where the road is visible.
Where she can see the turn
that will bring him home.

She listens for the sound
of his bicycle,
the creak and rattle,
the arrhythmic pedalling —
she would recognise it
in any crowd,
any city,
any century.

But in the silence between those sounds,
she hears other things:
the clock ticking,
the fire settling,
the wind rearranging the vines.

V. For the Waiting
…that holds you,
the vines that remind you
what winter costs.

For the creaking wheels,
may they carry him home
before darkness becomes absolute.

For the silence of his absence
may it teach
without breaking your faith.

May the sound you are listening for
already on its way.

This is what hope sounds like:
a creak in the distance,
a rattle on the stones,
a man on two wheels
pedalling toward home.