why? why do these things have to happen? why must a family be torn so? in tarot, the death card is a sign of renewal. but nothing here is renewed except pain and grief and suffering. why? why? why?
i heard the monks and the bereaved chanting today. being unfamiliar with the custom and unversed in reading chinese, all i could do was listen. and swim. swim in the liquid grief that filled the room, that threatened to toss me about on its maroon tides, that left me gasping for breath.
i couldn't see his face, as he was sitting at the front. but his drooped shoulders and listing head suggested a marionette whose strings had been cut. he rose several times to present incense to his father, each time shuffling along as if even walking was too large a burden.
she was eloquent as ever. even in such times of trouble, her composition was exquisite. of the girls i know, i would have thought her to be stoic as her brother. but several times during her speech, her voice rose in pitch, and i had to blink furiously against the dust that got in my eyes.
he, too, was eloquent. but, understandably, it didn't quite measure up to the brilliance he usually delivers with. of all the time i've known him, this was the first time i've seen him in any humour short of jovial. his eyes, usually crinkled at the edges, were now hooded. his brow, often upturned, was now leaden. though he was already astonishingly thin, his suit now hung about his gaunt figure like a discarded towel.
i didn't enjoy the final respects. their father's face looked so artificial, like a robot would look. a bit too smooth, a bit too plasticky-perfect. like the eulogies which were spoken that day, he looked created in the image of what should have been, but not what was. i placed my white rose upon his immaculately pressed suit and moved on.
what do you say to the deceased's survivors? i felt like a fool, floundering about for something to say, and only coming up with "i'm so sorry...." she managed a brave smile and a murmured "hey pat...." all that he could scrape together the courage to say was "thanks for coming...." i felt like drawing each into an embrace, but i was never close enough to either to do so. or maybe it was my own self-conciousness, my own confusion about how to express my empathic grief that made me hurry off without even remembering to deliver anita's condolences as well.
what happened? how can the world be so cruel to drive a smiling, laughing boy to don such a mask of anguish? why should life be so insufferable as to make a vigorous, gung-ho girl dim the light behind her eyes?
t....s.....forgive my leaden tongue, my inability to express my sorrow. i wish i could do something to help, but what can heal the wounds but time? if there's any request you'd make of me, please don't hesitate to speak.
damn it all......
i heard the monks and the bereaved chanting today. being unfamiliar with the custom and unversed in reading chinese, all i could do was listen. and swim. swim in the liquid grief that filled the room, that threatened to toss me about on its maroon tides, that left me gasping for breath.
i couldn't see his face, as he was sitting at the front. but his drooped shoulders and listing head suggested a marionette whose strings had been cut. he rose several times to present incense to his father, each time shuffling along as if even walking was too large a burden.
she was eloquent as ever. even in such times of trouble, her composition was exquisite. of the girls i know, i would have thought her to be stoic as her brother. but several times during her speech, her voice rose in pitch, and i had to blink furiously against the dust that got in my eyes.
he, too, was eloquent. but, understandably, it didn't quite measure up to the brilliance he usually delivers with. of all the time i've known him, this was the first time i've seen him in any humour short of jovial. his eyes, usually crinkled at the edges, were now hooded. his brow, often upturned, was now leaden. though he was already astonishingly thin, his suit now hung about his gaunt figure like a discarded towel.
i didn't enjoy the final respects. their father's face looked so artificial, like a robot would look. a bit too smooth, a bit too plasticky-perfect. like the eulogies which were spoken that day, he looked created in the image of what should have been, but not what was. i placed my white rose upon his immaculately pressed suit and moved on.
what do you say to the deceased's survivors? i felt like a fool, floundering about for something to say, and only coming up with "i'm so sorry...." she managed a brave smile and a murmured "hey pat...." all that he could scrape together the courage to say was "thanks for coming...." i felt like drawing each into an embrace, but i was never close enough to either to do so. or maybe it was my own self-conciousness, my own confusion about how to express my empathic grief that made me hurry off without even remembering to deliver anita's condolences as well.
what happened? how can the world be so cruel to drive a smiling, laughing boy to don such a mask of anguish? why should life be so insufferable as to make a vigorous, gung-ho girl dim the light behind her eyes?
t....s.....forgive my leaden tongue, my inability to express my sorrow. i wish i could do something to help, but what can heal the wounds but time? if there's any request you'd make of me, please don't hesitate to speak.
damn it all......
posted by Darian G. Pyckt at
8:17 PM
