The John Robinson window slid gracefully to the floor revealing an infinite cloud grey sky. Robbed of backlight, Robinson appeared murky lying against the wall. I looked out the window where Robinson had stood lo these last one hundred and eighteen years dressed in his blue silk suit with his arms up, his cape stirring in the sea breeze welcoming us to leave or arrive. It was grey and windy. I could imagine the Mayflower stealing away on return voyage to England and Saints and Strangers standing by the sea or on the very hill, waiting for Mayflower to cross below the horizon and then waited some more--stood there in their loneliness held only by their hope, God, and the sandy shore of the new world.
What did those Saints and Strangers imagine as they stood alone after that wicked winter when almost half perished. We can hardly place ourselves in their space and time; hardly imagine life without cars, electricity, running water and indoor bathrooms. I can hardly remember anymore getting up to adjust the volume on the TV.