“Time to sweep,” I said and sighed. And no one answered. No one ever answers. No one but the wind. It speaks. It spoke. But it couldn’t have been the wind. The windows were closed—the blinds were drawn—they’re always closed—always drawn—it’s always dark at dawn in here—it stinks in here—that’s because there’s no wind. Outside, while I work, the wind might talk, might hush or mock or play its twister games, but not in here. Never in here. So maybe it was me. Was me that answered, I mean. I never answer, but maybe I did this time.

Anyway, it answered—whoever answered—whatever? Ah. Yes. Yes! Whatever. It was a whatever. Yes. Because it was my broom—my special besom broom, Echo—I call it Echo—that answered. That’s why the answer sounded dry and distant and repetitive. My arms are long. Yes. That makes sense. Echo often answers. Echo’s my broom. It speaks in whispers, dry and sharp, with every sweep. Shhh, it says. Shhh. With its bristly shushing sounds, with every sweep—I realise that I’m sweeping now—I’m outside now—odd—with every sweep, it sounds its shushes like a person shushing others into silence, like the world should hush and let me work.

I don’t know why Echo shushes others into silence. In this silence, there are no others. There are never any others. Only me. There was a woman once. Now, only me. Out here. Only me. Me and my street. The street and its leaves. Me and the leaves that I sweep. They’re all I sweep. Leaves. But I’m not a leaf-raker. I am not a raker! I have Echo. Echo’s my broom. I am a sweeper! I sweep! That’s what I do. That’s what I am. A street-sweeper! Who sweeps. I’m alone. Once the wind called me a raker. A rakist! The audacity! I’d never rake. But Echo’s right. The world should hush and let me work. The wind that I can now faintly feel should hush. Today I have to work. I have to sweep up Fifth Street. Fifth Street is mine. It’s mine. It’s mine to clean, to keep—to maintain! That’s the word! Maintain! I maintain the streets. It’s mine to maintain. Fifth Street is maintained by me, and no one else. Or, it was. I’m forgetful now. I wasn’t once. I am now. Time twists.

But back to the street. It’s never clean. Fifth Street, I mean. It’s never clean. Leaves fall on it every day: curling, golden-brown. And every day, they seem a little darker. They fall from no trees—there are no trees here—not anymore—but they fall all the same. A little gift from nowhere. A little challenge by no one. “Clean Fifth Street!” my challenger decrees. But that’s not true. My challenger wouldn’t call it Fifth Street. I call it Fifth Street. I don’t know what street it is or what it’s called. I think it’s the only street, but one time when I had swept four-fifths of the street I saw that there was a fifth of the street left, so, naturally, I called that fifth of the street the Fifth Street, fifth of five that I’d had to sweep, but then I realised that since that street, the Fifth Street, was actually the same street as the rest of the street that I’d already swept, the whole thing was the same street as the Fifth Street and thus should have the same name as the Fifth Street and thus should be the Fifth Street, but since most place names drop the the I just call it all Fifth Street. Anyway, I have to work.

—

As day draws on, dull light dawns, and it starts. Gold leaves fall. Slow drifts. I mutter, starting my work, brushing Echo forward. Echo protests, bristles rasping on the broken paving. But it moves. I’m strong, arms long—Echo always moves for me. And now too, the wind is watching. I feel it on my back and on the back of my neck. I feel it soft and sharp. It’s both at once. Sometimes it helps, pushing piles into place. Sometimes it laughs, loosing them before I’m done. It’s so fickle. Always playing games. Makes me laugh. But it isn’t just a breeze. Don’t call it a breeze! It’s a voice, a hand, a thing with thoughts—and feelings too, don’t forget! Do not insult it! That didn’t go well last time. I feel it watching when I sweep. I feel its fingers tugging, teasing, testing, always testing. It knows me well, knows how to rile me up and calm me down. It toys with me. I’m fine with that. Sometimes, when it quiets, when it stills or shifts to something soft, I wonder what it’s doing. Honestly, my work is made quite hard by its distractions. But that’s fine. Anyway, I have to work.

—

A softing morning. Soundless. Still. I’m working well. No wind. No word. No sound. Save me. That’s weird. There’s not much left for me to do. I’ve gotten faster. Well, actually, I’m older. I’ve gotten slower. But I’ve gotten more efficient. I’m almost done. Almost. Fifth Street’s stretch is clean behind me for the first time in a long time. No leaves. No dust. Just clean. Grey pavement, rough and clean.

“I guess I’m done,” I say, somewhat surprised. “No more today.”

And just as I begin to bring my Echo over the last of this day’s leaves, I hear a sound. A strange sound. A high-pitched clink. And there, by me, at the end of the street, I saw it. A leaf. I thought for sure it was a leaf. The last leaf—perhaps made brittle by the early cold. But no. It was no leaf. It was something else. It shone. A sliver of a silver something, shining palely in the light—not gold at all—a sliver that should not be there—could not be there—must not be there!—yet was there. It was there for a reason. I—my fingers—itched to hold it, claim it, clean the floor of it, but my mind lagged, spinning leaflike in a wind of worry. What did it want?

My arms are long—just long enough to stretch to where the silver lay. Echo clattered to the ground just as my hand had found the thing it sought to hold. A key. No, not a key. A key-like thing. I turned it over in my hand and felt its edges sharp against my skin. Cold, smooth, and heavy in a weird way, heavier than its size should have allowed. It was a key-like thing. Its sharpness shivered, humming faintly on my skin, whispering—or was that the wind? It seemed to nudge. Nudge me, I mean. I’m me. Echo’s my broom.

Behind, the wind arose. It carried up my well-piled leaves—the piles I’d worked so hard to pile together!—and swept them down the street like a gilded tide. I jumped, shocked, raged, and shouted after it—but I can’t shout—and I ran after it—but I can’t run—so I hobbled, mumbling, behind my leaving leaves, dragging Echo with me. They moved so fast. They all moved. All. Every leaf.

“Swept away,” I muttered and growled. “Swept away. I was almost done. I was done! A little is fine. Sweeping some is fun. But all! You swept away all my work! All!” The leaves tumbled onward, flowing with the wind, increasing with its speed. “You… I just swept that!” And faster and faster they blew on, and I followed, until they, with dully rasping smacks, collided with a gate. I’d not known that that gate was there.

—

I approached it. It was old. I’d never seen this gate before. Its iron bars were black and bent and chains were wrapped around it, thick and tight, and rust made flakes upon their skins, and over and under those chains were strips of fabric, fluttering in the wind, leaves tasselled on them, written over with the words “KEEP OUT” and “DO NOT ENTER” alternating repetitively in bold.

I stood there, staring. The wind decayed, and leaves began to drop and gather up behind my feet like children huddled up behind their mother’s skirts. And when the leaves had fully fallen, there I saw a small, black lock. Black, but warm. I felt its heat. I sought out that silver key thing—I’d pocketed it—and it too was warm now, buzzing faintly in my grip. The wind gusted, hard, impatient, tugging at my shirt, my arms, my legs, my hair—no—I had no hair—but it tugged at where I should have had hair—pushing me forward. The key now quivered in my hand—or my hand now quivered on the key—as I brought it, the key, and my hand, them both really, closer up to the lock. It felt quite warm now, like it had come to life. I slid the key into the lock. There was no resistance, no awkward insertion, just a soft click, like an exhale. And then the wind blew hard, and a door part of the gate creaked open.

I stepped back for a moment, the gate yawning open, black and not. The key now burned within my palm, no longer cold, no longer heavy, only hot and weightless like its light—it was shining now—I think I mentioned that. I think. Anyway, the wind pushed me forward. Pushed! Insistent. Swirling with sounds I could not comprehend—sounds, echoes, of laughter, of weeping, shouting—tangled sounds, together rushing up much like a tide about to break.

I put a nervous foot out through the gate, then hunched myself and went through with my foot.

—

Light hit me like a slap. Too bright. Too full. It flooded in. I stumbled forward, clutching Echo, clutching hard like how a drowning man might clasp a drift of wood. The wind was heavy here, different, loud. It didn’t just play. It howled. It carried things.

I blinked. The world sharpened, focused. And I saw. Beyond the gate, I saw a street. A street not like Fifth Street with its silence and its emptiness, its golden barrenness. This street was alive. Cars honked. Drills knocked. Shoes stepped. And voices shouted. Voices! My God, voices! Voices shout! I’d forgotten the sound—I’m forgetful now. But as I stood, my senses stabilising, the wind rushed past me, wild and free, carrying the smells of food and the smells of people—people!—and the smells of puddles, and oil, and dirt, and something else—something electric in my nose. Rubbish. Actual rubbish. Filth! The street was filthy. Leaves. Wrappers. Cups. Papers. Mud. Spit. Muck. Trash. Everywhere, piles and drifts and smears of filth. Different filth. Filth alive, breeding, multiplying. Not like the leaves, orderly in their disobedience, but anarchic, defiant, irredeemable filth: a mess in need of me. It needed to be cleaned. It never would be clean. Never. But that didn’t matter. It needed me. I need someone. Fifth Street had been mine. Now this street would be mine. I had a lot of work to do. Start with the leaves before they rot.

I took a further step out through the gate, feet crossing the threshold. “There’s always more to do.” I said. The wind whirled with noise, triumphant in its sounds. I knew it was laughing. I was laughing. “There’s more mess than just mine.” I cried. “Alright!” I said through teary laughs. “Alright! Alright! I’ll clean it up. I’ll clean it all.”

—

I began by brushing Echo on the ground, its bristles hissing shushes at the crowds. The people tried to ignore us, tried not to look. They tried to walk around me, stepping over the piles I’d swept together. That was fine. It didn’t matter. This was my street now. It would appreciate my work one day.

One woman saw me. “Hey,” she said, sidestepping my well-swept piles. “What are you doing?” She had a uniform on.

I looked up, Echo poised mid-sweep, eyes wide, surprised—she looked angry.

“Sweeping.” I said. “Cleaning what needs cleaning.”

The woman frowned, anger deeper. “Cleaning? Why are you raking…”

“Sweeping!” I cut her off, yelling. “I am not a raker! I’ve raked nothing!”

She frowned. “Okay…” She said, on guard. “Look. You’re not meant to be here. What are you trying to clean? The gutter? And… and how did you get my—please give it back!” She snatched the keylike thing from me.

I smiled faintly, tilting my head. “I’m just cleaning, ma’am. I’m always cleaning,” I smiled deeper. “Got to get on with my work… Lots to do today… Always cleaning.”

She sighed deeply then put on a fake face, a fake smile, her eyes flicking to Echo like it was a weapon. “Come on,” she said, voice clipped and pretending caring. “Give me the branch. You can’t clean anything with this.”

“Echo’s my broom!”

“That’s a branch… Come. We’ll get you something at the station. Come. Let’s take you somewhere that will help.”

Help me!

“No. No.” I said. “I don’t need help. The streets need help. The leaves need help! Can you not see? They’re dying. They need to be swept away before they rot! I have to sweep. If I don’t…” I trailed off and swept away, the wind about us twirling, like in play, on over to the end of the street where there stood a great Autumn tree, shining with the sun, its leaves falling one by one, gold and in decay. I’d leaned upon some limbs like its sometime before this day. Or maybe I didn’t. I forget these things.

Who is a real person who is a legend to you?

In 1962, a 37-year-old man from England named Brendon Grimshaw suddenly quit his job and bought a small island in the Seychelles for about $10,000.

The island was called Moyenne and at the time of Brendon’s purchase it had been abandoned for 50 years; however, everyone thought he was crazy and he ended up moving permanently to the island as its sole inhabitant.

While most people tend to buy islands for the luxury, Brendon had a bigger vision. He wanted to restore the island to its raw beauty, creating a natural paradise completely untouched by man and tourism.

Over the next 40 years, Brendon lived alone on the island; he managed to plant 16,000 trees by hand, built 5km of nature trails and attracted around 2,000 new birds to Moyenne.

Brendon had transformed a vacant lot into an island of incredible beauty; Moyenne was so beautiful that a Saudi prince offered Brendon $50 million, but he refused.

Since Brendon died in 2012, the island has been owned by the Moyenne Island Foundation and is now a national park available to all thanks to their efforts.

“No,” she intoned with a still spirit, “you will understand when you reach your destination (fated outcome).”

With a weariness, I accepted the magnitude of the moment for what it held in promise. A second nod was given in an understanding that this journey was mine, an unfolding of events that would lead to home (self-exploration).

-(delusion)

–(despair)

—(deceit)

—-(damage)

—–(darkness)

——(discussion)

—–(deviation)

—-(depth)

—(duty)

–(desire)

-(divinity)

All the words and feelings twisted into a unified whole (deliverance).

And so I turned with unsure footing to the new day, bound in beauty, set to find myself again (repeated pattern). For the first time, I took note of the hawk circling in a lazy swoop of air, the ease in which the oversized bird hovered above knowledge. I let myself focus on the minutiae of each blade of grass I trampled, listening to the footfalls as twigs cracked and I broke the earth (destruction).

The sunlight filtered through the canopy of dancing leaves, the winds whistling their resolve in the cold damp of time. My attention drawn to the sudden scampering of a nearby squirrel, hopping a path to safety (unknown), I longed to be a companion. For as much as I have fought for solitude, the crux of my pursuit has been the elusive acceptance, to be chosen, to be loved (tragic grandeur). I walked further into the abyss, daring anyone to oblige.

“Pray about it,” I heard the unnatural sound of my whisper, trudging deeper into the accumulated angst and misery. I have basked too long in the rejection of self-loathing.

Carefully hiking through the woods, my thoughts wander to the mundane. The routines which confine are liberating in their predictability. They let the soul rest (vanquished sleep). I can smell the morning coffee, how the warmth rises from the cup, holding me in its redolent grasp. It is the knee-jerk reaction I need to own the beginning (familiarity). I read the newspaper the old-fashioned way where the fingertips are inked in black. I walk Ozzy, my truest faithful companion. Fern will get there, but she is a disordered mess of playfulness that exists only for the frivolity of the moment. I shower. I take photographs of people’s best moments: the weddings, christenings, birthdays, graduations, and anniversaries. I capture sunsets, ocean swells, nature returning to its foregone state, but I hold in my heart the weight of reluctance.

Disillusionment.

(all i really want is for you to hear me. tell me i’m wrong. that i’m onto a purposeful lead (forgiven), that i won’t feel lost for the entirety of this trek. please tell me something. do you hear my pleas? don’t ever assume that I don’t feel the pain.)

I run my hand along the outside edge of my pants’ pocket, feeling for the outlines of a map, something to supplement the vague directions provided (attenuated comfort). The woods intersect with the sighing stream. My gait quickens, lured by the melancholy sound of the water as it runs its parallel course. The water is cold and crisp in its movement through my fingers. I feel alive (secure), connected to this source of life. I take a sip from the cupping of my hands to sustain activity (folly).

I sense that I am close. The night descends with a rapidity that starts at the far edges and creeps inward, narrowing my field of vision (limited fear). The first inkling of starlight appears, the faint glow of another world. I continue the methodical advancement, quiet footsteps. Night smells different than day, an odious quality, and I am heightened to the sensitivities of danger.

Squinting, the smoke lifting from the chimney is discernible. It rises in a steady ascent, inching above the horizon. The light from the house holds a steady glow behind the curtains. It comes rushing back with a forcefulness, the words we passed between each other without considering that tomorrow might not come (feigned recklessness).

“Do you still want this?”

“Yes,” you mouth the word with a pained expression, imploring me to see the underlying hurt.

“Let’s try then,” I choke it out, begging for the chance.

“I’m scared.”

“What are you scared of?” I ask. The way you look at me is disabling, like I should have guessed at your concerns (broken).

All you wanted was to protect your station, to scurry away your heart. I can see it now, the reflexive choice we make when confronted with the breathlessness, the idea of falling in love (honesty).

(i told you every way i could without saying i love you. i am at fault.)

I sprint toward the afterglow of what could have been, running faster and faster. Stretching my legs past exhaustion, I race a path toward the future. I take the stairs two at a time that lead to the porch of the humble house. Stopping inches from the sturdy door, I collect my thoughts (hurriedness). With my arm raised, my fist leaning against the wooden frame, the night air pacifies my breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Think about what you’re going to say.

Before the present coalesces with the past, the door opens. In that singular space when our eyes connect, when our souls plunge to a depth that portends forgiveness, I am privy to the secret (lost). We are soulmates, tethered to the inexplicable.

I will accommodate the burden of two hearts.