Migration. Introduction: Departure. First Line:

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

It began with her father angrily throwing their belongings in the back of the car.

We are a people whose story is rooted in migration. Sometimes, the migration becomes very personal indeed: forced, without options, over burning bridges and boundless backtracks. This was the beginning of mine.


All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

The past is gone; the future will not be; all there is is now.

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

The place that I lightly fictionalized into Hunger Road? I know now that that will be my only way of going back. It doesn't exist anymore.

I made the mistake last night of looking it up on the satellite view of Google maps. Everything has been razed to make way for the dull brown fields of factory farms.

House. Barn. Shed. Orchard. Pond. Marsh. Raspberry patch. Cherry tree. Weeping willow. The trees that lined the road.

All gone. All of it.

Also, the house where I was born, backed by my father's garage? Razed to make way for a parking lot. My history. Erased.

I sat here and wept.

The only place home exists is in memory, and in my spirit.

It was not this way only months ago, although the changes had begun. But this has occurred only since I began writing, and my grief is a profound and indescribable thing.

I have wept intermittently all day. I didn't realize the extent of the hold the place had on my heart, on my soul, something far deeper than flesh and blood and bone. I also didn't realize it, but I suppose I was hoping, against all hope, that someday I would be able to return, just for a moment, to bring Wings and show him the land that was my own soul and spirit, the earth beneath me feet and the life that flourished upon it that was my own life, that gave me life.

Now all that remain are the ghosts of the trees — oh, yes, far more than merely the maples; virtually all of them, all along the road — the ghosts of earth and water and sky. Even those ghosts exist only as shimmering reflections, their edges softened, shortened, lengthened by the middle distance of memory, like the image of the willow in the pond that is no longer there.

We say there is a bridge to cross between the worlds. The only bridges I have found are the ones I have built on faith and the aid of Spirit. Some burn even as I cross, flames licking at the soles of my moccasins; others become walled up, denying me a way back.

I cannot bring myself to return to the place of my birth, nor to the place the immediately followed Hunger Road. It's too close, this knowledge that it is all gone, the wound too deep. And so, the next story picks up with my departure from that latter place, a forced migration of my child's body and spirit.

It's a long story, one that I may only be able to tell in pieces. I have no future in the sense that most people consider theirs, since I have no children. The past is gone; nothing there remains. All there is is now.

The ghosts that live in my memory are my only bridge now between the worlds of my past and present. Perhaps this is the lesson Grandfather has been trying to teach me. But our story is a story of migration, and my own migration is not yet complete. There are bridges of the spirit yet to cross.

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner. 

A Visit from an Ancestor

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

It's been a week since I wrapped up Hunger Road . . . and a week since Grandfather last appeared here in this place, in this form.

The last few days have been extraordinarily difficult physically: in part due to the drastic change in the weather; in part due to the workload we both carry. When my body is this worn out, my mind is not far behind, and it has been increasingly hard to do all that needs to be done.

When that happens, my cognitive abilities teeter and plunge, and my mood with them.   

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

By this evening, the fatigue had set fully in, bone-deep. So had the mental and spiritual exhaustion. In recent months, it has been just when I am at such a low ebb that Grandfather appears . . . but for a week, he has been entirely absent.

I slung my camera around my neck before trudging up the long drive to shut the gate; it's not uncommon to see small evening birds or other good subjects, so it's become a habit. As I headed toward the drive, I looked wistfully toward the post in the round pen, always one of his favorite perches. It was empty, as it has been for these past seven days. 

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

His last appearance coincided with my concluding of the telling of at least part of his story, and it seemed then like a benediction, a blessing, an assurance that I had done as he would have wanted, and done it well. he gave me the one thing he never had before: the ability to capture his image in flight.

As I walked past the carport, the post was fully in sight, empty. In that brief second, I felt myself wishing, rather sadly, that he would return, wondering whether last week would turn out to be his final appearance for the season . . . or for good. Suddenly in my mind, his voice (which I have never heard in life, only in dream states) came clear and plain: "When you need me, I'll be there."

Two steps later, and he was there. It was, quite literally, nothing more than the blink of an eye or the beat of a bird's wing, certainly not enough time for me to miss the sight of a raptor alighting upon it.

Yet, one moment he was not there; the next, he was. It was as though he materialized out of the sunlight itself.

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

I took a few distance shots, then went up to close the gate. He was waiting for me upon my return. He gave me some twenty minutes and scores of shots, turning this way and that, allowing me to capture him from virtually every angle. Most of the time, he stared directly at me, particularly when I spoke aloud. The bird knows the old tongue — how, I cannot begin to understand, but he responds to it far more readily than he does to English.

And so, while last week was an ending of sorts, it clearly was not final. I think that I will see him yet again. And while my body aches, my spirit hurts no longer.

For now, I am linked to my ancestor, even two thousand miles from our ancestral home, and my spirit soars with him.




All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Nimishoomis

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

It's been ten full days since Grandfather put in an appearance here.

I've missed his presence here, after seeing him so frequently. I missed him most of all today, on the day when I wrapped up his story elsewhere.

I was taken aback by how much that ending affected me. Writing it, the tears began falling about three paragraphs in, and didn't stop. After I hit "Post," I tied up a few things, then sat down by myself and just . . . wept. For the man I never knew, and all the others I never knew, for all that none of us ever had, for all that we were forced to have, all the breakage and the damage and the pain, generation after generation after generation.

But tears or no, there are chores to be done, and it was time to do them. After feeding the animals, Wings called my attention to something in the sky: the ferruginous hawk who has been visiting in recent days. Who he is, I have no idea; if I had to guess, I'd say he was Marsh's own father, but he may be a wholly different spirit. At long last, I captured a few shots of him in flight, but at such a great distance that he seems very small indeed.

When he at last flew out of sight, I turned to go indoors to to leave the camera there. On the way, for some strange reason, I looked southeastward, and a shape caught me eye. I almost kept going, but something told me the shape was not what it seemed, and I turned the camera back on and lined up the shot.

It was the bird I call Grandfather, the one Wings calls simply Grandpa, seated atop the first of the posts we set a week ago, staring straight at me.

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

With the brilliant intensity of the late-afternoon sunlight, I had no idea whether the shot came out. So I kept shooting, moving slowly forward, catching him from slightly different angles.

Of course, I missed the in-flight shot, when he swooped down off the post to sail over something in the field. I've been trying to get him in flight for two months now, to no avail.

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

At that point, I almost went back inside.

Something prompted me to set everything else down and walk around to the south to see whether I could find him in the field.

In the intervening moments, he had swooped back up, and had landed atop one of his favorite perches, the post at the center of the round pen. He sat there a few moments, looking at me, looking southward, looking east, grooming himself, preening his feathers.

I asked him whether he would give me the gift I'd been seeking for all these weeks.

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

A few moments later, as I focused the lens, he gathered himself, then took flight.

I don't know whether he'll return; I hope he does. But it feels as though, like his somewhat-fictionalized namesake, he too is with me, his spirit entwined with mine, carrying me home.

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Epilogue, Chapter 7; First Line:

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

She has walked the land one final time, breathed every breath of the autumn air.

There comes a time when you have to leave the ghosts behind. Fortunately, you can carry their spirits with you on your journey.




I feel as though I've just been forced to say goodbye to my grandfather, as though this man I never knew has just been ripped away from me again. It hurts my heart.




All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Epilogue, Chapter 6; First Line:

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

Behind a veil of feathery gray, the sky is aflame, but the wind carries the chill promise of something more than rain.

When ghosts deign to speak to the living, they don't always give you the answers you want. But if you listen closely, they might just give you the answers you need.



All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Epilogue, Chapter 5; First Line:

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

The day dawns cloudy and cold, the gray relieved now only by the glowing leaves that seem to change color with every turn of their whirlwind dance.

Ghosts don't always speak in a language we can understand. Sometimes, however, they find other ways to deliver their message.



All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Epilogue, Chapter 4; First Line:

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

The air grows cooler, sharper, the winds a whirl of leaves and a feeling of anticipatory change.

Ghosts walk when denied justice. Sometimes, those who continue to work for it on their behalf are afforded the opportunity to see it happen.



All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Epilogue, Chapter 3; First Line:

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

The trees have been busy exchanging their green garb for gaudier robes, gold and red and brown, but all are muted to black beneath violet dusk skies.

Dreams can provide a window into the past. Sometimes, a ghost who crosses between those worlds can bring dreams that provide a glimpse into the future. 

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Epilogue, Chapter 2; First Line:

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

It’s the last dance of Indian summer, the final explosion of color and light before fall takes up permanent residence for the year.

A disappearance, however permanent, doesn't guarantee an end. That's when it's helpful to have ghosts on your side.



All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Epilogue, Chapter 1; First Line:

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

The return of the rains has filled the dry marsh, and the blue overhead tints the waters below, deep blue against the green of newly-revived reeds.

History repeats itself, through drought and storm, until we get it right. Sometimes it takes a ghost, and maybe a few ancestor spirits, to make it happen.



All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Section VII, Chapter 7; First Line:

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

It’s a night lit only by the yellow glow of a horned moon, and the leaves murmur and moan as the rising wind carries their voices home.

Ghosts pursue their obsessions from beyond the grave. Sometimes, those obsessions pursue them in turn.

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Section VII, chapter 6; First Line:

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

The canopy of trees along Hunger Road are turning gold in the late-summer light.

A benevolent ghost may protect you when it can. If you're lucky, when it can't, it'll send someone else to help.

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Section VII, Chapter 5; First Line:

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

The storm has ushered in the first breath of fall, a sharp edge on the air before the return of Indian Summer.

Ghosts don't always make their intentions clear. Occasionally, however, they can confirm that you're on the right track.



All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Section VII, Chapter 4; First Line:

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

The riotous weather continues apace outside the window, but in her dreams, the whole world is white.

Ghosts can guide you through history by way of dreams. Sometimes, they're all that gets you through the horror.



All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Section VII, Chapter 3; First Line:

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

Raindrops create tiny ripples within each wave driven forward by the wind.

Sometimes you need a break from the past. Sometimes, it's the ghosts who give you the strength to keep going.



All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Section VII, Chapter 2; First Line:

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

She awakens to a shuddering sensation, the sound of hammering on all sides.

Sometimes the ghosts can tell their own stories. Sometimes it helps to have a witness.



All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Section VII, Chapter 1; First Line:

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

The bird sits on the the rough wood post of the fence to the east, the sun a halo around his feathers, much like Old Marsh’s shimmering aura when he appears in spirit form.

The welcome spirits are the ones that come to your defense; some ghosts also defend history in the process.

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Section VII; Intro:

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

Some bridges are built to burn.

When they're gone, sometimes the only way to reclaim the past is with a map made of moondust and smoke and the insistent anger of an old ghost.

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Section VI, Chapter 7; First Line:

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

She will not give in to the shudders threatening to wrack her entire being; will not; NOT.

Digging up the past can be terrifying. Still, the ghosts keep watch over those who would tell their stories. 

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.