It Must Mean Something.

It must mean something.

The radio is off; he could not bear to listen to it any more. Every station, every song, every DJ sounded so... so mundane, so dismissive, so obviously unaware. Unaware of his confusion; unaware of his worries; unaware of his hopes. Unaware of his need for meaning.

It must mean something.

As he drives on through the dry, dark night, the road markings flashing by under his headlights have a steady rhythm, a rhythm that his pulse picks up. Not fast enough to be nervous, but enough to make him feel on edge, as he remembers.

The phone call, telling him; then, the phone call inviting him. Of course he was invited, and of course he went. It was beautiful, no less than anyone could hope; it was dignified, no less than anyone could want; it was moving, no less than anyone could expect; it was sad, no more than everyone could take.

Was it meaningful?

He had listened, he had watched. Then, when it was over, he was still watching. He did not know what for; nothing was happening. Nothing would ever happen again. And then he had seen it - off to one side, in a corner, missed, ignored, a single, tiny speck of green: a four-leaved clover the only living thing, here, on her grave.

Since then, he has been driving. He doesn't know where he is, he doesn't care where he's going. All he knows... but no, he doesn't know anything. He has questions. He has only the one question. That icon of luck, of hope, and fortune, there, on her freshly covered grave: does it mean anything?

It must