Whistling Past the Graveyard of Grammar
Whistling Past the Graveyard of Grammar I stroll at dusk through Syntax Cemetery, hands in pockets, whistling a tune in C major: the key of confidence. Headstones lean at questionable angles: Here lies the Run-On, shot mid-marathon. RIP Comma Splice - two independent clauses who loved too recklessly. A pale apostrophe floats by, moaning about possession. I tip my hat. “Your haunting is noted,” I say, checking that my its isn’t wearing someone else’s coat. The wind rattles dangling modifiers from the iron fence, they cling to the nearest noun like nervous party guests. Somewhere, a split infinitive tries to boldly defend itself. I whistle louder. Past participles rise like fog, irregular and unapologetic. I nod respectfully;we all have our tense moments. The trick, I’ve learned, is not to fear the dark; just bring a flashlight shaped like a question mark and a map labeled “Context.” Because grammar is less graveyard, more garden, trimmed with care, fertilized by revision, occasion...
