november third
by td hughes

It’s the morning of November third, two-thousand and four; the day after Election day.

In Asheville, nestled in this western corner of North Carolina, a damp, grey mist obscures the view of the mountains of the Appalachians, like a new backdrop changes a scene in a theatre. For now, the meeting of Earth and air is defined solely by the branches and leaves of the trees outside my window.

I don’t know yet who won the election. I have not turned on my television, nor my radio.

When I awoke this morning and looked outside, I felt witness to the beauty of Creation. Moisture, soil and light had magically transformed into things we call “Trees” and other living forms that struggle toward the Light. And I am reminded that the Earth, the very soil itself, is the source of all living things: That we are soil transformed into flesh, with the indefinable and unbounded gift of that Consciousness which inhabits all living creatures, through which God lives and knows all Things—even of the sparrow that falls to the ground.

I am afraid to disturb this feeling of being surrounded by the miracle of Life. It is a delicately balanced mental state; easily disturbed by my inadequate attempt at description, or the news that a benighted, strutting egoist has again taken the seat of power.
I do not yet wish to find out that upon this holy Earth, the killing will go on; that humans will still be blown to pieces; that the sacred ground from which all Life arises and to which it returns will be further poisoned by explosives, chemicals and radiation. Or that there will be no attempt to adjust our massive output of poisonous gases and pollutants with which we assault the precious air enveloping our planet in the empty space of the Universe.

It is now the afternoon of November third. From a grey sky, a grey rain is gently falling, the raindrops defined against the darkness deep in the woods beyond my window. The water drips from the branches of the trees in benevolent abundance, falling gently upon the acquiescent soil to begin the Miracle again.

I still do not know who won the election. I am hungry, but if I leave my abode to buy food, my glance will fall upon the headlines of a newspaper or I will overhear a conversation and the spell will be broken.

I think have enough bread for toast.

Terence D. Hughes is a freelance writer who lives in Asheville. For the stage, he’s written a one-act monologue and is rewriting a full-length comedy. He has also written the funniest screenplay in the world and has begun work on a novel. He knows he may be a woman next time...