insurance policies more thoroughly than they examine the recumbent victim ⦠in the land of the brave and the home of the free. Too fragile a moment to rush through and blot over with police reports and a chapter-and-verse blow-by-blow of whatâs what and where itâs at, the size of it and the straight of it all jotted down so desultorily and indifferently by the kitchen police. This moment is far too strong to articulate, being beyond the capacity of feeling and language, and no no no no no, it is not happening, it is not happening, and mother dear, I cannot put your beloved body into the hands of bossy interference. Though gone from daylight, she whose happiness had always been his happiness, here was still their last moment together.
Winter atmosphere now fogged its way through the house, for the house had held motherâs soul and was now inhospitable without that soul, falling back into darkness as if infected by rage at the loss of its keeper. Now, the house was nothing at all, frozen by helium blast. The secret heart asked mother one final question: how do I now get close to you? But the question is too pitiful or just too late. Ah, but mother dear, I shall be the prop of your old age, and let it fall squarely on my shoulders for there is far too much for you to feel responsible for ⦠as units of time become units of distance and mother mutates into memory, and oh, so many questions I had wanted to ask you, and oh, so many new things that I canât wait to tell you ⦠but cannot. Sunny-natured, I shall take your arm, and together we shall always punch aside hastening death. There would always be time, and death has already taken so many others that it cannot possibly need you. There would always be time. But now Harri felt a pain that others could only guess at, and here was the very first day of his life that would not pass as all other days had. Here was his first moment of aloneness, no longer someoneâs son, no longer someoneâs baby, and although a new wisdom shook his brain it was a wisdom that he had no wish for, as horror itself went insane. Gazing into hell he saw the thin line between suffering and mental deficiency, and only darkness could be a relief from such unimaginable rapids of fastidÂious torment. Unversed in practicalities, Harri very slowly telephoned the elderly lady who lived next door, and he explained the inexplicable to Margo in a voice sounding nothing like his own, and somehow not believing the words being skewered out of his own mouth. Margo knew that people are allowed to be dead, and she had seen many a sudden and surprise ending. Calmly, and with that independent technique of a world long gone, Margo assured Harri that she could call all necessary signals and take control, and her eighty-four years rolled into motion like a rocket-fueled missile, fully resourceful on a day when life rotted. âItâs very hard to accept that your powers are limited,â she later explained to Harri, and the sun struck at a certain angle like a hint from nature that there would certainly be another tomorrow, and that it ought to be lived.
Harri declined to attend his motherâs funeral because he felt that he had already done so during the hours that he sat on the kitchen floor with her dry, organic remains, with all of its requirements and grasping insistence of control over conflict, control of explosion ⦠the body against the soul ⦠the limited against the boundless. He wanted people to know how much he was suffering at the loss of his mother, yet his shaky duty was to hide it from them.
âThere was only she and I,â he softly explained to Ezra at Ledgerâs Bar, the voice consistently croaking a half-crack, âand the life she led was the life I led. What makes tomorrow worth anything?â
âMe!â shouted Ezra. âEverything weâve worked for these last eighteen months! She would want you winning ⦠not sick
Winter atmosphere now fogged its way through the house, for the house had held motherâs soul and was now inhospitable without that soul, falling back into darkness as if infected by rage at the loss of its keeper. Now, the house was nothing at all, frozen by helium blast. The secret heart asked mother one final question: how do I now get close to you? But the question is too pitiful or just too late. Ah, but mother dear, I shall be the prop of your old age, and let it fall squarely on my shoulders for there is far too much for you to feel responsible for ⦠as units of time become units of distance and mother mutates into memory, and oh, so many questions I had wanted to ask you, and oh, so many new things that I canât wait to tell you ⦠but cannot. Sunny-natured, I shall take your arm, and together we shall always punch aside hastening death. There would always be time, and death has already taken so many others that it cannot possibly need you. There would always be time. But now Harri felt a pain that others could only guess at, and here was the very first day of his life that would not pass as all other days had. Here was his first moment of aloneness, no longer someoneâs son, no longer someoneâs baby, and although a new wisdom shook his brain it was a wisdom that he had no wish for, as horror itself went insane. Gazing into hell he saw the thin line between suffering and mental deficiency, and only darkness could be a relief from such unimaginable rapids of fastidÂious torment. Unversed in practicalities, Harri very slowly telephoned the elderly lady who lived next door, and he explained the inexplicable to Margo in a voice sounding nothing like his own, and somehow not believing the words being skewered out of his own mouth. Margo knew that people are allowed to be dead, and she had seen many a sudden and surprise ending. Calmly, and with that independent technique of a world long gone, Margo assured Harri that she could call all necessary signals and take control, and her eighty-four years rolled into motion like a rocket-fueled missile, fully resourceful on a day when life rotted. âItâs very hard to accept that your powers are limited,â she later explained to Harri, and the sun struck at a certain angle like a hint from nature that there would certainly be another tomorrow, and that it ought to be lived.
Harri declined to attend his motherâs funeral because he felt that he had already done so during the hours that he sat on the kitchen floor with her dry, organic remains, with all of its requirements and grasping insistence of control over conflict, control of explosion ⦠the body against the soul ⦠the limited against the boundless. He wanted people to know how much he was suffering at the loss of his mother, yet his shaky duty was to hide it from them.
âThere was only she and I,â he softly explained to Ezra at Ledgerâs Bar, the voice consistently croaking a half-crack, âand the life she led was the life I led. What makes tomorrow worth anything?â
âMe!â shouted Ezra. âEverything weâve worked for these last eighteen months! She would want you winning ⦠not sick
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