Long Road

k


Today, in the late evening never have the streets seemed so empty, never the world so paper thin. It's like you can see only the polish on the table and not the table itself...

So many journeys together in the 275- and now I make it alone. You'd always ask at least five times for me to sit down so that my legs wouldn't get tired. I'm sure you remember that. Or try and pick up all the bags yourself. Well, not today, Ubo.

Why does this light remind me of so many other summers? Like the time we stayed in a caravan. There is no more time, not even hours and minutes, just these memories that go around and around.

How I have longed for you today.
How I have wished you to stay.

~~~

I won’t write much more.I know everyone has their own life and grief to carry on with so I won’t burden you but..

Do you believe in signs? I think the distracted mind will always look for coincidences and patterns. We always “ intuit unity”, join the dots. On the other hand, Over the last few years I’ve come to believe that there are signs, it’s just that we don’t know how to read them.

Last night I wrote something ( for myself, about my father) called the ‘long road’. In the morning I woke up with the ( ridiculous?) longing for some sort of sign to try and ease- is that the right word?- the emptiness.

I picked up a book at random ( only read bits of it before) and turned to an unread poem at random.

It says something about driving in the late afternoon on the 19 th of June, passing a dark cloud from a freight truck from Budapest ( I’ve been in regular contact with a dear student whose brother died in Hungary just now). 

Even if you don’t believe it, it’s okay..the poem itself is beautiful..it goes on..

Hours after your death you seemed

Everywhere at once like the swifts at twighlight

Now your moments are clouds

In a photograph of swifts.

It concludes with:

Dead, you whispered, ‘where is the road?’

There, through the last of the sentences, just there-

through the last of the sentences, the road