Methuselah

Wandering the desert, it’s reddish sands, climbing one hill, stumbling down another. Desolation Wilderness; perfectly named, perfectly hostile.

He’s searching for that place, one he knew well in childhood, a dimming memory each day. Sun baking his skin, wind drying his tongue, continuing to call out her name, always that singular thought: her.

Finally. Bathed in her lengthy shadow, struggling to stay standing in her presence, her gnarled, twisted, withered limbs enveloping him.

Singing his song of death, he’s following the ancient way of his Fathers. Dying, casting up Spirit, entwining with hers, growing as straightened as Methuselah’s standing braided.