“I would have been a geometer,” Paul begins, “if I hadn’t been a Pharisee.” I am watching Paul draw circles in the sand. Two sticks, tied at the top, make a compass. The circles begin to overlap as we spend more time beneath this tree. “See how these two overlap? They are like bubbles in a boiling stew.”
I noticed, then, that Paul saw things differently. That these circles were not stuck in the ground. They arose from the sand.
“O, did you see that?” He asks. “As those two met, they kissed.”
These circles, he was drawing, had life to him.
“That kiss is the horizon.”
The horizon, wait, what? Horizon? The horizon, that orbital shape off in the distance, I realized was a portion of a circle.
The question it seems, if Paul is right, is where is the other circle?
Do circles always come in pairs? Triples? Quads?
“Sometimes we see the horizon, from one perspective.” Paul said. “But we always know at the horizon, there is something greater, another circle. That is how we know another perspective.”
I then hear this ring. A dull ring. Paul is playing with his finger, tapping on a piece of silver. It is a coin, circular in shape, filled with an imprint.
His thumb and forefinger twist and caress the silver. He smiles. And next I hear something land in the field far away. I look at Paul, his hand is empty.
“The horizon,” Paul whispers, “is where he appeared.”
The always greater circle.