Ampersand

‘He thought it had only been put there to finish off th’ alphabet, like, though ampus-and (&) would ha’ done as well.’ (George Eliot: Adam Bede) And had in fact, for generations— the plump, open armed ‘&’ waving goodbye from the end of the old-world alphabet like an innkeeper framed in doorway candlelight, farewells swelled with hopes of come again. Then the old world burned down because we sensed, beyond the candle’s glow, the road led to a dead end. No traveler returned, even the unverified odd reports of happy returns petered out. So we renovated the alphabet, signing it off with a streamlined ‘z’ as sharp and final as lightning: no sense in posting notice of further connections that didn’t exist, or passing off maps as places. Trouble was, nobody felt at home in the revamped compound. Bookings fell off, postcards of views of blank walls piled unsold in the unvisited gift shop, the same paperbacks stalled on the revolving racks. It was a paradise of sorts, a golden age of nullity, no relatives breaking the costly silence. No wonder Eliot’s befuddled Jacob Storey felt his page of Z’s was somehow ‘not right,’ that ‘it was a letter you never wanted hardly.’ He knew, as one newly released from the unlit cell of his long-unlettered ignorance, what you did want hardly: you wanted, needed—as hardly as Hetty Sorrel, abandoned at the dock—someone to stand by. You were the murderess of your baby, silenced with a ‘z.’ You needed a hand, the open-armed return of all your relations. You wanted, harder than death, ampersand