“In the morning they came up out of the ravine and took to the road again. He’d carved the boy a flute from a piece of roadside cane and he took it from his coat and gave it to him. The boy took it wordlessly. After a while he fell back and after a while the man could hear him playing. A formless music for the age to come. Or perhaps the last music on earth called up from out of the ashes of its ruin. The man turned and looked back at him. He was lost in concentration. The man thought he seemed some sad and solitary changeling child announcing the arrival of a traveling spectacle in shire and village who does not know that behind him the players have all been carried off by wolves.”
~ Cormac McCarthy, The Road ~
Have you read The Road, by Cormac McCarthy?
I read it when I was on maternity leave. I read most of it in the middle of the night, balancing a tiny screen while nursing a tiny baby, riveted awake by McCarthy’s prose and my own terror. It is a terrifying, post-apocalyptic read – not usually my thing, really. I’m not even sure why I started reading it but it was so good, so absurdly well-written, and so compelling that once I got started, I couldn’t stop.
I find myself coming back to The Road again and again, it’s become one of those touchstone books for me.
I think of it especially when I find myself somewhere desolate: a big city in November, an empty field in the middle of winter, early spring when the snow is half-melted and dirty.
This afternoon I had a Road moment.
The greenspace at the back of our school, which I’ve been writing about all year, has been devoured. We went back there this afternoon and it was clear that some giant piece of machinery had eaten it. All that was left were mounds of snow and dirty dead grass, topped with broken tree limbs and masses of pointy twigs. It was sad and frustrating and ugly and bleak. I was devastated.
But then I noticed the kids. They climbed over the mounds of snow, they pulled out the sticks and carried the broken branches. They lay down in the snow and looked at the sky. They didn’t say anything.
They didn’t seem at all phased by the change in the landscape; they just accepted it and moved on. Not a single child asked what had happened. Maybe they figured it out because of the tracks in the snow. Maybe they assumed that their green space was still intact, hidden under the snow. I was so awed by their silence that I didn’t feel right asking them; it felt intrusive. It had become a formless space, somewhere that they could approach as though new. While I was busy grieving, they were exploring – venturing bravely into a new world.