(Somewhere is the prompt from Sunday Scribblings)
Somewhere is a seeker’s word, a dreamer’s word, a Will-’o-the wisp. It is the siren song that lures one on but can never be reached. When the dream is achieved or the lost is found, somewhere loses its first five letters and is transmuted into here.
The old prospector knows that somewhere there is gold. Perhaps he is doomed to wander fruitlessly in search of it. But “Eureka!” He has found a trove of golden chips! He has found the mother lode! Now the gold isn’t somewhere. It is here, where he must face the reality of back-breaking labor in the heat of the day, of nights plagued with mosquitoes, with the details of filing his claim then protecting it with his rifle by his side. Somewhere was vague and dreamlike. Here is harsh fact.
The tiny lost child is somewhere. Her frantic parents search the neighborhood, imagine accident or abduction, call her name, finally find her weeping because she has lost her way. She is no longer somewhere, she is here, safe in the warm circle of her father’s arms.
Somewhere can be a terrible place. Somewhere in Africa a mother holds her skeletal babe who is dying of starvation. You know it is happening somewhere because you have seen the pictures. But for the volunteer who is on the scene, it is the dreadful here on a scale that defies his resources.
I once dreamt that somewhere there was a man whom I could love forever. He is no longer somewhere; he is here in this room, still asleep at this early morning hour. And where has somewhere gone? It must be somewhere else.