The Wheel Continues to Turn

The sky is very blue today. It’s a bright, gentle blue that whispers of spring warmth and summer dreams. I think some people would call it robin’s egg blue. But the name you call it doesn’t matter. It’s all semantics. It will be blue regardless of how you decide to classify it. But what really makes the sky such a perfect blue today is that there isn’t a cloud in sight. There wasn’t one yesterday, or the day before that or the day before that…there has not been one for quite some time if you really think about it. I suppose that if one chose to count the days (and most residents here do not), the last time a cloud flew by was nearly two years ago. It was most strange. I remember it so well because old Mr. Henderson disappeared on that day. He left without saying goodbye to his wife. Mrs. Henderson didn’t mind really; she just felt it wasn’t very polite. But she has moved on now. After all, two years is a long time. It’s all in the past. I’ve heard she’s gotten a cat now to keep her company. I think it’s good for her. You know what they say – it’s best to keep forward. The past is gone and it is something one need not linger over. Besides, nothing good ever comes from living in the past.

Speaking of looking forward, I’d like to introduce you to the neighborhood. It’s a nice neighborhood. Every house and yard is very clean cut and tidy. Perhaps one would say it bordered on the edge of dull, but the residents here like the quiet. In front of us, there is a clean, white shingled two-story house. It sits on a lawn so verdant and green that it reminds me of green glass bottles that you can only find buried underground. The white house and the green lawn are protected by a polite white fence. I say polite simply because it looks polite – not offensive in any way, but not quite welcoming, either. The spring green lawn is cut in half by a clean white cement path that leads up dusky red brick steps to the quiet red door. The doorknob and the doorbell are golden so that when the sunlight hit them just right, one could imagine that they would shine and gleam invitingly. You can tell by the way the gleam that they like to be handled and enjoy their job as gatekeepers, separating the outside from the in. There is an old-fashioned metal flap positioned just so near the lower half of the door – the letter slot for mail that could occasionally tiptoe past the mailbox but never did. This house looks very much like every other house on the street. It is rather ordinary, in fact. I did not mean to stress that it is remarkable. Quite the opposite. Don’t be confused – it is not special in the sense that it is different from the rest. It is the kind of house any person would dream of living in – you’ve dreamed of living there, perhaps, once upon a time. A polite house surrounded by a polite fence in a neighborhood that requested (politely) that whom-so-ever chooses to live there please, mind your manners and above all else remain anonymous.

In compliance with this unspoken request, muffled footsteps stroll down the clean white path. The only sound in the still air is the hollow scuffing of leather on cement. It would appear that these leather-clad feet belong to a tall man dressed in a black suit and wide, flat brimmed straw hat. It’s a tidy black suit with a black tie – not at all out of place in this quiet neighborhood. The pants are ironed straight and have that impeccably straight seam that runs from hip to ankle. The coat buttons and cuff links are polished and sparkle in the sunlight. From the neck down he appears to be a rather solemn image of sophistication. The only thing that ruins that assumption is that straw boater hat. It looks like a hat my grandfather would and has worn, and his grandfather before him. The straw is the color of chicks down with a black snake strip bordering the crown. It’s a peculiarly organic accessory and not one modern man would choose to wear with a black suit.

His features appear amorphous. It is rather peculiar…it’s as if your eyes are not able to alight on any specific detail. If one was inclined to try and discern what this odd gentleman looks like, you would find your thoughts and gaze turning elsewhere of their own volition. You would find yourself changing your mind and going about your tasks without a backward gaze. This is only hypothetical, of course. You wouldn’t think to look. It’s best not to attract his attention. He’s here on business. He has a job to do.

The gentleman is walking up the path to one of the houses. He’s making for the door. The gatekeepers are watching, gleaming, hoping. He’s at the stairs now. He swings up them as if he’s ascended them every day of his life, and he knocks. He does not touch the doorbell. He does not glance at it. That particular gatekeeper continues to keep. He is waiting, waiting patiently for the door to open and to be received by a member of that house. There is a still silence for a span of ten seconds, and then the red door is being pulled open. A middle-aged man in striped flannel pajamas and a blue terry cloth bathrobe is standing in the doorway. He is exchanging pleasantries with the gentleman. The gentleman takes off his straw hat and bows.

“Hello, my dear boy. Please, allow me to introduce myself. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. I am your Maker.”

The man in the robe blinks, blanches, and pulls the door closer. He’s starting to sweat. It appears one of the gatekeepers failed this time. Perhaps that’s why they always guard in pairs. Why one shouldn’t be handled without the other.

 “Oh, geez! H-H-Hi it’s nice to meet you, but aren’t you early?” Mr. Bathrobe checks his wrist watch as if it held the answer. It didn’t. It only told him it was a quarter past nine.

“No, my clay-son. I’m right on time.” The sound of his voice is curious. It has a choppy echo-like resonance in the undertones – like when you chatter into the spinning blades of an electric fan.

Mr. Bathrobe is distraught. He plops down on the red brick stairs. He looks tired and uncertain. He buries his face in his stubby fingers. His voice is muffled when he speaks. “But I’m not done yet! I’ve an interview with the big boss this afternoon, and Mary, that’s my youngest, she’s just turned sixteen last month and I still haven’t bought her a car and – ”

 The gentleman clears his throat, laying a hand on Mr. Bathrobe’s shoulder. “It’s not your decision. Everyone is introduced at some point. You’ve read the rules.”

“But…why now? Why, when there’s still so much to do and I’m just starting to get the hang of it…you’re my Maker! I mean, you must have some say.” He searches the gentleman’s face. What do you suppose he’s searching for? Maybe the answers lie in his (not-quite-there) smile.

 “I don’t control the when and why. You know this. You’ve read this. I am instructed to build and sculpt you from the clay that feeds the trees of life in the middle of the universe. I decorate you with snips, and snails, and puppy dog tails. And when the last grain of sand falls into the bottom of your hour glass, I greet you. In this cycle, you are not exempt – you’re just like everyone else.”

Mr. Bathrobe is whining now – like a little boy who simply wants to continue to play with the other kids. Just five more minutes, please, and then I’ll be ready!

 “But…b-but I can’t go…Can’t you give me just a little more time?”

The gentleman is patient. He knows this isn’t easy for either of them. But he also knows the consequences of a job undone.

“We must go my clay-boy. To stay is not an option for you. Come with me now. We need to go home.”

Mr. Bathrobe sighs. He’s resigned now – he doesn’t understand, but he knows he will. Perhaps he will create his own clay-boy someday. For now though, he is going back home with the gentleman, and the wheel will continue to turn.

Both men have turned to go. It appears their business is done. The gatekeepers don’t gleam as brightly as they once did. They know they failed, though it was through no fault of their own. There is no need to lay blame. What’s done is done, we can not go back. The circle will spin. But what’s that? There, floating in the blue sky. There’s a cloud above Mr. Bathrobe’s house! What an odd sight. First one in two years. However, there is only one. No brothers or sisters have joined it. How very strange. It just appeared suddenly. It’s such a dark cloud – dark grey and swollen. Perhaps the cloud will decide to rain. If it does, it will only rain over his house. How very strange.