Nearly one hundred years ago, T. S. Eliot wrote: “April is the cruelest month breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing / Memory and desire, stirring / Dull roots with spring rain.”
Anyone who has lived through brutal winters in Northern Illinois has little problem in agreeing with him. April, with its dull roots and lilacs, hides a secret: before spring rains come to visit and sunlight breathes life back into the dead land, there will be at least one more snowstorm.
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Spaces: In the space between the buildings, there were bedrooms, kitchens and bathrooms, a home on each floor, where families used to live.
Then there’s the space between the man and the dog, even though their separate shadows have merged into one.
Also, there are several meters of space between the artist and the street scene he painted, but just as fascinating, there’s a space of time between now and when he originally created the painting — more than thirty-five years ago.
For the past few weeks, the spaces between people in Soria and everywhere else in Spain has widened. The city, like the rest of the country, is under strict quarantine while the virus sweeps through the streets, gathering its victims. As of today, at the end of the first week in April, 2020, more than 120,000 Spaniards have been infected and more than 11,000 have lost their lives. This in a country 1/20th the size of the United States.
The man and the dog no longer walk the streets of Soria. The families who used to live in the empty space between the buildings are probably not with us either. “Eventually,” my friend Maya tells me from Madrid, “the spaces between all of us alive on earth and all those buried beneath it will not exist. Every one of us, everywhere, will join them. Only not now, we hope. Not soon. But eventually…”
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Once upon a time—but not that long ago—a girl wandered into a deep forest. She was young and unafraid, and became enchanted by the hum of bees and the fragrance of pines and cedars. Bird songs guided her past brambles, sinkholes and other dark places. After awhile she came to the edge of a lake.
Looking down into the water, she saw leaves half-buried in the muddy bottom, a slender branch that disappeared and then reemerged, shadows of branches above her, and the burning sun, half-hidden behind sheets of clouds. But she herself cast no reflection. “Why can’t I see myself?” she wondered. “Where am I?”
The ones she had left behind, who wondered what became of her, did not blame her for wandering away, and we should not either. She was simply curious and unafraid when she unbuttoned what she was wearing and stepped into the water.
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