Humming bees nearby, swarms of them. But you tell yourself it’s no threat: I come in peace. Away from the crowd, alone, you walk the bumpy path with a pounding heart, nothing but the distant sounds of people you’ll never know, and the chirping of crickets you will never locate. An occasional butterfly passes you by, but you don’t notice it. You’re too absorbed into your own thoughts, sinking within yourself. Nobody can tell, to the casual eyes you’re another prying tourist, but you know you’re a pilgrim. You wonder how dark it gets in here few hours from now, if there’s salvation at the end of this road, if you will ever forgive yourself and start again. At the end of this road is your pergatory, the sins only you can see will burn and to ashes, spec by spec washed away with the wind. When they catch up with you they’ll see the same person, not the feather floating in the air, unweighed down by regret and the question of what need not have happened.
It happened. It needed to. It never did.