Honie Briggs

In her haste to be of service to the world she made a great mistake. Generous to a fault, in the end, fault was all that remained. She lacked the moral vocabulary to sustain her good intentions. A petulant moment often snowballed into an avalanche of despair. A soul can only claw its way back from hell so many times.

She was such a soul.

Her loves disintegrated under the weight of her passion. Her hope suffered from neglect. Blessings were burdens, and burden was her constant companion year after year, birth after birth. One so wholly advantaged and yet entirely oblivious to the power she possesses cannot be entrusted to guide the lives of children. One by one she leads them into the depths of a great chasm that takes a lifetime to escape. 

Some never do.

She lived in a small town, the kind of town that doesn’t forget. A town where victories are commemorated in cornerstones along Main Street and villains appear on the front page. Fathers and mothers of scholars and scoundrels can count on the comings and goings of their progeny to be well documented by the town historian. Neither grand affair nor petty grievance escapes notice, lest the good townspeople lose sight of who did what to whom and want for something to debate during an election year. Towns like this are common. So common, in fact, that her life could have been anyone’s life. Any place on the planet.

But the world was too large. She could not be a citizen of it. There was no home beyond the boundaries of her town, no protection, no redemption. So, she occupied one place forever.

They called her Peace.

*****