Whisper of Waves

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Lightning played across the water-saturated ground, the only relief from the utter blackness of the moonless night. Each brilliant flash of blue-white showed another tableau of destruction.

There was nothing left but rubble. It was all gone. The supports lay shattered, once great stone blocks so much gravel, and all around was mud-everywhere black, all-consuming mud.

He didn’t speak. Barely moving enough to breathe, he stood perfectly still. He’d never held his body so motionless. As the lightning crashed all around him and the thunder vibrated his chest, threatening to disrupt the very beat of his heart, he stood in perfect, uninterrupted silence.

There was nothing to say, after all. What was there to say? What eulogy could be appropriate for a man’s dreams? His life, that was obvious-a list of family and friends, platitudes to assuage the grief of those left behind-but his dreams? His dreams left in a pile of mud and ruin, what could a man be expected to say?

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