No One Speaks Bo Anymore

i drive across town on an errand, not yet midnight and it is mostly silent, only a few cars on the main streets. It is s a very good time to think, i think.  The town is hung as always in strings of lights, in tree after tree lining the cobbles near the mill, from storefronts, on porches, and parked rvs in west side front yards. A few stragglers are leaving the theater as i pass, the cinema where i wish the films playing were as nostalgic and deco as the stone and neon facade. Towards the east the moon rises over the badlands, dissected in half and framed by clouds held still in its glow, the sort of moon that followed you home as a child. Something falls lightly from the sky, maybe rain or snow, maybe tears.

As i drive i am trying to think of just the right words to say while the man on the BBC explains how a language died today when its last speaker passed away. He eulogizes the language but not the woman and plays a hissing tape recording of her speaking to no one that could have understood, words for things and ideals that shall never be spoken again. The sounds were ancient, almost Neolithic but in her voice sounded like music, i thought, as if she were chanting prayers. The tape ended and it felt like a snuff film.

And we have so many words to chose from, so many listeners able to understand what we choose to say.

i wonder did she have a word for love that went unspoken, unheard?
What happens to her home now that no one knows its true name?
How long without prayer before her god dies?

i try to think of the right words for her, the ones the reporter couldn’t muster. i seek and search, imagine and dream until i realize he was right. There are no words to ease her into rest, they are interred along with her.

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