A Memorial for a Civilization That Will Never Return
Chapter 22 of A Stitch in Time – this is actually the entire chapter:
My shed has become somewhat more bearable, but the clutter and confinement of the interior space requires that I leave the door open. To keep myself busy when I’m not working with the med unit, Doctor, I am engaged in a project I must tell you about. It baffles me. Perhaps you can tell me if I’m losing my mind altogether.
Tain’s house, as I mentioned, is rubble. One day I began moving some of the debris and arranging it into a pile. Since there was too much debris for just one pile I arranged another. And then another. Until after hours of work I had carefully assembled several piles of debris in varying shapes and forms. I continued to create these piles and arrange them for two, maybe three weeks, not knowing what I was trying to accomplish. But the work was satisfying, Doctor—it felt good. And each day, when it became too dark to work, I would survey my creations, and I never felt prouder of anything I had ever done in my life. I don’t know where the shapes came from, and I certainly couldn’t explain their significance; but somehow they held me in their power.
After several weeks I asked Parmak what he thought this was all about. He’d stop by intermittently and check on my progress at various stages, but he always kept his own counsel. On this day, he moved through the piles (there were dozens by now) and studied them from all vantage points. A very careful man. Finally, after what seemed like an age, he stopped in front of the pile that was the largest and held the central, dominant position. He turned to me with the strangest expression on his face—and looked me directly in the eyes for the first time. “I think this is your own archeological dig, Elim. You are unearthing the artifacts of a previous civilization—a civilization that will never return—and arranging them into a memorial for that civilization and its dead. This is your own personal Tarlak Sector. You’re clearing the way for us to move on. Thank you, Elim. This is an honor for me.”
Parmak then chanted a section of the Cardassian burial ritual. He mentioned the names of several friends and relatives, and as he chanted, the cumulative emotional power of his voice was almost unbearable. I, too, had a list of the dead that long, and whispered their names as he chanted. Parmak then took his right hand, ripped open a finger on a sharp piece of metal, and allowed the blood to drip on this central “monument.”
“Thank you,” he repeated, and walked away, his finger still dripping blood.
But what baffles me, Doctor, is that I attach no meaning to what I’m doing here. I’m just doing it because I need to. And to be truthful, I don’t see this as a memorial at all. On the contrary—if I could, I’d singlehandedly rebuild this city myself, piece by piece. I stood here watching Parmak’s blood dry on this pile of rubble, engulfed by a feeling of loss and utter mystification as to what these piles mean. Just assure me that I’m not going mad, Doctor.
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