She Is Indiana
By Dave Fouts
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When this thing is over, I'm going back to Indiana. Yet not an Indiana you could ever find with road maps or travel agent. Mythical may or may not be a word best used to describe what I mean. From the Egyptian Book of the Dead, the priests would chant to the spirit of the deceased, "You have departed alive. You did not depart dead." This was to call in the wandering soul and direct it towards its final journey. Someday after I'm gone, and this thing is over, I'm going back to Indiana. In place of an Egyptian priest, I will use a Baptist preacher. He will be of pure Indiana heritage. I imagine this man being middle aged, flirting with unbelief, and bitter from the hopes and wishes that never came true. He no doubt will be thickly built, plump in an unhealthy way, from taking out his fears and frustrations on church potlucks, and Midwest style buffets. His eyes and ears plugged with church dogma, he would perpetually be found in a stretched-out suit tagged in food stains. This is how I remember the holy men of Indiana to be. And he will be one who is acquainted with suffering, having spent his life believing he knew the one true way to heaven, yet never saving anyone that either he or God considered to be of any consequence. I plan to choose the services of such a failed and ignorant man, someone who tried so hard, but failed badly, because in his own way, he is a part of Indiana. Regardless of what season I leave in, it will be winter when I arrive. In Indiana, all things end and begin out of winter. Once notified of my death, the preacher I have picked and given instructions, will go stand in the middle of a cornfield and chant these words to guide me. You have departed alive. You did not depart dead. Come Home: Corn bread, fried corn, corn pudding. You departed alive. You did not depart dead. Come Home: Corn fritters, baked corn, boiled corn on the cob. You have departed alive. You did not depart dead. Come Home: Corn pancakes, corn soup, creamed corn. I believe those words will call to me and bring me back to Indiana. In this land the fields in winter lie on their backs, vacant yet full, dead but alive, waiting to be completed while complete within themselves. I remember how those winter cornfields laid out endless in all directions: a dead ocean of cold dirt and random broken stalks, and how this could seem in the eyes of a young boy, mysterious as a pyramid. Corn grilled in the husk, pickled corn. The subdivisions are sat in between the great fields, with all the houses lined up like rows of corn. There is an established pattern to follow in Indiana, a standard meant to guide you. In wintertime, the people sit in these homes quiet as turtles and wait. They wait for the seed, the sun, the water, and then the miracle. What has been dead has come to life. Corn stalks knee high by July 4th. In late August, they are over the top of a thirteen-year-old boy's head. Corn relish, corn salad. I will see her again, the girl, as she is Indiana. And she is the Lady of the Harvest, the Blessed Corn Maiden, always. Walking one behind the other, we traveled deep into the field, with green walls of leaves and stalks to either side of us. There was the sun's hot breath, a crayon blue sky, and long dark strings of insect sounds, the bush crickets, rising up straight as a stick. Shiny green stalks were pushed over to form our first-rate bed. Clothes came off and a new world created, as the girl stood naked and smiled at me. Touch, taste, do. She lay down like a field giving itself up to the harvest, us both flush and alive with young lust and wonder. From there, the girl went on to offer me example, and instruction on how to give, how to take, and how the two can be as one in the same motion. As the poet declared, "She wakes the ends of life." I remember it all and will be back there once again, When this thing is over. Popcorn. |
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