Marzine, Hershel, and the bunker that revived her career

Marzine found an old bunker out in the fields one day, while staring out at the oncoming sunset; the dagger of fire, that the Indians must've found inspiring. Across the plains, she spied a slight shimmer, a reflection of brazen metal in the middle of the peaceful desolation of plains, buffalo and painted sunsets.

As she approached this reflection, clutching her elbows to stop the shaking, she found, to her surprise a door,one covered in moss and layers of rot.

It took a few minutes to clear away the detritus, but as she wiped away the last layer of decay away, she found an inverted handle. With a quick pull, and some great resistance, the door slid open, and looking back at her for the first time in probably 30 years, was a blackness not found anywhere but the subterranean nooks and crannies that dotted the landscape of the great Southwest. She could make out the top step, and beyond that an inviting cool nothingness that would envelop her as she traversed the first stair, lighting a cigarette and using the finely pointed light of the cherry on her smoke as a light source, walking down the stairs, and taking in the vast emptiness of the place.

It comforted her, to be down in this cold place. New Mexico was hot that year, and nowhere else could she find the solitude that would eventually yield to new material.

She brought out her acoustic guitar, charcoal, candles and a scratchy but warm blanket out the next night. After exploring the bunker, she lit the candles, and began to cry.

For there once again, was Hershel's fatherly command, his matriarchal presence. Her heart sprinkled with his illumine, as patience returned to her soul once again and almost immediately words to the song she’d sung to herself, the one that helped her sleep at night, gave comfort to her in the middle of the night on the cot in the day-room, when she'd first been taken in, so overcome with grief and loss that she'd wander into the empty recesses of her heart and construct a bridge from which to rebuild herself again.

She wrote on the walls, the black shade of the charcoal darker than the corrugated steel that comprised the bunker's walls.

Words flowed out of her, the way Hershel left her that night, inspired, and with the knowledge that love can be a transient, temporary thing.

And I'll never know,
If my heart's the melted snow
Is that all that's left
From the love I used to know?

The way you were taken from me,
Seems so very, vilified,
But the hope of you springs eternal,
Could It be true?

That the man I loved,
Was torn and crushed
By the very god who made me?