Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

The Eyes of Keyholes

UBIAN BREZ

You are resting in peace on a hill above Sollefteå. A beautiful cemetery. With the years and the frosts the surface is wearing away, the letters on the stone are growing shallower, the palm leaves in the hieroglyphs of your name are fading. But it’s obvious you’re still an outlander. In spring, when an invisible hand plants new flowers in last year’s pots, municipal grass grows around your head. That’s how I know that down here in town your blood tingles in no one’s veins. You are dust now. And when you are dust in one place, you are dust everywhere. That way you’re returning home. Perhaps by the same road, carrying with you the same beauty and the same dangers so they can surprise you in an unfamiliar place. That’s what I think, but on All Souls’ Day, God’s garden comes alive, with the unseen hand sending a multitude of candles to all those who are resting in peace. At the foot of your gravestone, darkness is alight. It is as if you were residing somewhere but not getting mail. That’s how I know you have no home.

247