The unbuilt moment

My father has lost his way out of the present..

The act of forgetting used to take time.
Now it accompanies him through each day..

What unlocked this emptiness?
He knows not to ask. He knows how small he is,
how small his island, how small his spell.

Lavinia Greenlaw.

Through the built up countryside, its lines, tractors, and terrible sense of being manufactured (Hugh Brody was so right here!). Death itself is manufactured here.

This was an impossible day for me. I don't think I can write about it. The last day I will see my dear, dear uncle, who I love so very much. Old world style and charm, an even older Jewish-Kashmiri intelligence, a mind always keenly alert. He introduced me to Peter Fuller's lovely book. I feel I have to somehow keep that safe now.

And now he has just a few sentences left. He keeps repeating, "this is terrible, this is terrible". Keeps his hands busy. Writes down a sentence in a beautiful script but barely recognizes what he's written. The struggle to say something is unbearable. I do my best to hide the horror and sadness in my heart. I just hug him and say "it doesn't matter". I have tears in my eyes now. He doesn't want to let go. I can't speak now. 

The world carries on. The taxi driver utters something utterly pointless. I don't blame him. He wants to drive away as far and as fast as possible. I don't look back. I can't. Everything is falling away in this dullest of environments, the sun-and-wheat consciousness making me choke.  

So, here we are, bewildered in this unbuilt moment. Everything will pass away, but I will still love you.