I have written the first draft of my father's requiem. There is symmetry, twisted, in its countenance, that his death was within ten years and change of my mother's. In late summer, we scatter his ashes under the bristle cone where we left my mother ten years back.
So it goes...
Did you father die recently, Robbie? I haven't kept up, I'm sorry. Mine died so long ago, 46 years, I don't remember all I felt. He was old, had a long, good life. Now, as I reach the end of the rainbow, he's often in my dreams. Take care, my friend.
ReplyDeleteMike
Yeh. Beginning of the month. Funny thing, he's not been in my dreams at all, whereas, before he went away, he was with my mother almost nightly. That might mean something.
DeleteI miss you. The finality in your words troubles me.
Nothing in this life is infinite, Robbie, as you well know. Nothing wrong with recognizing that. I wonder about that too, as to the meaning, no clue. Part of the Great Mystery. What Happens Next. My guess is that it's nothing, oblivion. And I think that's just fine. I like the thought of my atoms, released into the air, a single molecule of carbon finding one of Cary's, and a binding happens. Fantasy, but I like it better than the other versions of afterlife. I'll stay in touch, my friend.
DeleteMike