Rain falls gently, like grace
on a good and solemn people. We take everything a little more serious now than we did a week ago. We would be lifted to heaven by 5000 souls, yet the weight of our grief burdens us so. Let the rain come down; let the rain wash us.
It was a bright and lovely weekend, as if we had nothing to be somber about. Yet we were somber.
The raspberry-colored house is now cinnamon, with blue-grey and coral accents. And she looks stately and elegant, the old girl. The work is not done, the crew is not here because of the rain, the day is dark, and still she looks lovely. We have made some good choices. This will house us til death, warmly and well, this good house in Fairwater.
Half the gravel for the shoulders along Highway E between Fairwater and Five Corners was put down on Friday, on the shoulder along the east side of the road. The shoulder to the west side remains to be done.
The absence of the hawk tree is the absence of the World Trade Center towers - a correspondence, now that I've made it, I'll never be able to forget. Sometimes maybe it would be better to close my mind and stop thinking, to stop seeing and thinking. I say that, but I don't think I mean it. There is so much I wish to see, so much I choose. Pleasure and pain are two edges of the same knife.
South of Ripon, a tree has turned orange, a gay dress for the funeral.
It's my job: I write things down, I do not always know what they mean.
Me either. But write we do. this is still a resonant post, Tom, I'm glad to read it now. I've been looking through old journals too...
Posted by: beth | September 18, 2007 at 09:26 PM
Thanks, Beth. I figure if we just keep on keeping on, something will come of it, from the weight of it, as diamonds are made. One can hope.
Posted by: Tom Montag | September 18, 2007 at 09:34 PM