None So Blind

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It was the first day he’d gone back to doing what some people said he should probably never have stopped doing in the first place, the first day he’d gone back, drawn by the force of something that had held him in thrall for so long, to jumping out of bed in the still-small darkness and making himself, all on his own now, a large, black coffee, and his thick slices of bread and honey, and the first day he’d gone back, in the nascent light of dawn, like so many times before, long ago, when the brightness seemed to light up once more the same things that dusk had left confused and spent and so very, very tired and gave the impression that it would go on lighting them forever, to throwing his worn jacket and his old satchel from twenty years ago over his shoulder and heading off toward the river’s silence and his work in the field.

He was relieved when he realized that the road was the same as it had always been. They hadn’t redone anything yet or built anything in the area, and when he walked along that road, walking as if it were in fact the road that were walking through him, he was infused with a strange sense of calm and a strange feeling of liberation. It must be that what’s permanent, he said to himself, that what will always be the same no matter how many things change, as his father used to say, or as people said his father used to say, is what actually frees you the most. Things that remain the same speak to you, sustain you, and they do it without ego. Although knowing how to listen to them is something else entirely.

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