Sunday, March 28, 2004
He left them, not slowly, not after any difficulties, but abruptly. He sent letters, but it wasn't like letters sent from a father overseas, but letters never sent found in the bottom of a cedar chest. They weren't reassuring, they were a reminder that something was lacking. When someone dies it's easy to imagine all they ever were, are, and will be is erased. It's not that easy when someone just walks out of your life.
It's a small island, but it still possesses places of exile. He found one and inhabited it for 20 years. His name came up only in pauses.
When he died it was the obligation of a family that never knew him to clean up the mess he had accumulated.
It wasn't a funeral, it was a burial. Anything he had accomplished that deserved to be feted or remembered took place 20 years previous. It was all just a formality.
"He wasn't a father. I don't hate him, but I was a bastard."
It's a small island, but it still possesses places of exile. He found one and inhabited it for 20 years. His name came up only in pauses.
When he died it was the obligation of a family that never knew him to clean up the mess he had accumulated.
It wasn't a funeral, it was a burial. Anything he had accomplished that deserved to be feted or remembered took place 20 years previous. It was all just a formality.
"He wasn't a father. I don't hate him, but I was a bastard."
# posted by Die Brucke @ 7:54 PM 
