“Yonder” can mean a few things, like many words can. I suppose the most common use occurs in the South, where it means something akin to “a little ways away.“ The car might be “over yonder,” for example. Not right there, but just past it.
It also can mean something like “this" or “that.“ One might refer to “yonder house” or “yonder river,“ squinting into the sun, pointing at something in particular.
It’s strange how some words can mean such disparate things. One word can mean this, and that, and there. (The root, “yond” shows up in the word “beyond" too.) At once so specific and general.
Katie and I recently watched the sunset in Shenandoah, from a mountaintop, staring into the wild blue yonder. We were free, together, and on the move. We watched the sun set fire to the horizon, watched it cast shadows on houses the size of pinheads. Big things can seem so small, depending on your perspective, and small things can suddenly become so big.
We’re still here. We’re still alive. We’re still working on taking each step toward some distant and unforeseeable end. Just over yonder river, in yonder city, in yonder apartment on yonder street. We gaze into the distant yonder and we’re not sure what to expect. But when we turn away, when the future is a little too vague or too real, we can take comfort in knowing that we’re together. And sometimes, that feels like enough.
-gj