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Whisk Of Dust: Too Unseen Distance

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Sherman Kennon

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“Sometimes, well into middle age, I composed letters to my father. In my dreams, I would meet him on a busy street, after many lost years, and he would receive me with the same old warmth. We would get into a little train together, or sit in a dark hall, watching a screen lit up with bright, moving images. 'Where were you all these years?' I would ask him, and he would ruffle my hair. My father hadn't died; he was a traveller in a different dimension, and he would turn up every now and then, just to see if I was all right.”

FatherChildhoodDeath Of A Loved OneChildhood MemoriesFather And Son
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“Have you news of my boy Jack? ” Not this tide. “When d’you think that he’ll come back?” Not with this wind blowing, and this tide. “Has any one else had word of him?” Not this tide. For what is sunk will hardly swim, Not with this wind blowing, and this tide. “Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?” None this tide, Nor any tide, Except he did not shame his kind— Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide. Then hold your head up all the more, This tide, And every tide; Because he was the son you bore, And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!”

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“She wrote his name on a piece of paper and lit it with a match. The letters curled as they turned dark and misshapen until she didn’t recognize them. They were figments of something that she had done in her past, lost into some other form of existence. Where did the letters go now? She tried to find traces within the ash of some resemblance of what used to be. She dug down, her fingers turning black and gray like the depths of her. He was gone. Gone. What was she left with but ashes and darkness once the light of the flame went out? The smell of smoke lingered like a memory of him. Was this the end or could she write a new word? Not a new name, not his name, but could she call a new word into existence? A new piece of HER; a new reason for her existence? Picking up the permanent marker, Amy placed it in her pocket for later. Ashes blow in the creek bed and blend with the stream, moving down like sand in an hourglass.”

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Book:Hourglass in Grace
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“Sevdiğinin aniden ve beklenmedik şekilde ölümünden önceki son yirmi dört saati... Bir kitaba sığar mı ki? İki kitaba sığar mı? Sanmıyorum. Bir sel gibi aklıma doluşuyorlar. Bunlar aslında her gün, her zaman olup biten sıradan şeyler, aynı zamanda da önemsiz ve kolayca unutulabilir şeyler... Fakat ya şimdi? Şimdi, ne kadar da farklı. Ne kadar değerli, ne kadar önemli şeyler. Şimdi artık hepsi unutulmaz, hepsi hazin, hepsi kutsal, hepsi nasıl da itibarlı.”

Death Of A Loved One
Book:What Is Man?
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