Excerpt From 'The Epilogue To Mary Oliver'

The Performers and the Observers London, 1947 Oliver knocked on the door for the third time. An old friend had invited him over. Oliver didn’t ask for a reason; he didn’t need one. He had known this man for decades. The door creaked open. “Oh, um, hey there, Ollie.” “Hello, Arthur.” Arthur was a mess. His beard was half shaven, clothes stained, and hair left to grow like weeds. “Yeah, um, hi. I had to wait and make sure it wasn’t some government officer, you know, that it was really you.” He mumbled nonsense between his words. “Yes, I know.” Oliver had grown used to this. Arthur had fallen into a constant state of paranoia, always thinking “They” would come for him. He was broken; left mentally cracked from the war. They walked into the house. The stench was rancid.

“Ma said it was the best she’s heard! You know how she always loved your playing!” Somehow, being with his decrepit mother made Arthur act with a sense of stability, and yet here he was at the peak of his madness. Arthur looked at Oliver with soft, bright eyes. His tender smile almost taunting Oliver, as if it were a symbol of the man’s insanity. Even after Arthur had both witnessed, and been forced to partake in, the brutalities of war, he still remained ever so kind and loving. Under the layers of paranoia and bitter suspicions, a warm soul lingered on. It was almost unnerving. The shattered man laughed as he spoke. “Golly, Ma, you look real nice tonight! Real nice!” Arthur turned to Oliver. “Doesn’t she look nice Ollie? Doesn’t she look real nice?” Oliver looked at the pair in front of him. One ripped from existence, the other fading from it. The violinist wasn’t the performer. Arthur was. Oliver was the observer. The spectator. Oliver was the witness. The witness of a man’s life being ruthlessly shred to pieces. Oliver stared into Arthur’s pastel eyes. “Yes, Arthur. She looks beautiful. Absolutely