Buried in the Holler

Time falters and the rhythm of the holler unravels, and every legend must be redrawn. What was once a reliable peak has surrendered to the valley. A mother’s passing is a slow erosion of the foundation that held our world in place, leaving us to study the silence, a new law governing the atmosphere. The heavy stillness is not a void but a presence, lingering in the spaces mother once filled.

I look at the family graveyard where old monuments stand against the slope, history etched into headstones. My kinfolk remains here, buried in dark soil, watching the mountains they once climbed. Mother joins this silent congregation now, a member of the earth. I want to ask for her advice, to seek the logic of the seasons she knew so well, but the mountain provides no reply. The dirt is dry, refusing to reveal the secrets of what makes a life bloom.

My own face in the mirror becomes a recurring ghost. I see her history in the slant of my gaze, a sketch I did not choose to be drawn. She was the anchor of my safety, a force capable of turning back the winter wind. Now the house is a museum of memories. Her old clothes, a worn book, and her keys sit frozen in time, resting on shelves heavy with a story that has reached its final punctuation.

I walk the path where the north star has vanished behind clouds. This loss follows me as a companion, a shadow that never shrinks. I carry her name like a secret coin, rubbing it smooth until it feels like part of my own. The world has taken on a different shape. The mountain remains, but the light has changed.