"I once stopped at a little memorial on a sidewalk. A photograph, flowers, a candle. There were thick layers of wax underneath it. Somebody had been relighting that candle for a long time.
People walked past. A woman carried groceries. A motorcycle went by. Somebody nearby was making tacos.
Nobody lowered their voice. Nobody turned the street into a cathedral. The dead person was still part of the neighborhood. That made sense to me."
I love this, very bittersweet. It makes sense to me too.
Hi Brett, reading you this morning from Maine but a lifelong New Yorker, Tucson homeowner, fellow deadline writer and longtime lover of Guanajuato. Also, I’m one year older than you. I love your writing, your love of jazz but most of all your love of Guanajuato. Thanks.
Another enjoyable read. If we are lucky enough to get "old" some of us become more sensitized to the smaller elements around us that at a youthful age, we believed could "wait" until later. That "later" is now.
"I once stopped at a little memorial on a sidewalk. A photograph, flowers, a candle. There were thick layers of wax underneath it. Somebody had been relighting that candle for a long time.
People walked past. A woman carried groceries. A motorcycle went by. Somebody nearby was making tacos.
Nobody lowered their voice. Nobody turned the street into a cathedral. The dead person was still part of the neighborhood. That made sense to me."
I love this, very bittersweet. It makes sense to me too.
Hi Brett, reading you this morning from Maine but a lifelong New Yorker, Tucson homeowner, fellow deadline writer and longtime lover of Guanajuato. Also, I’m one year older than you. I love your writing, your love of jazz but most of all your love of Guanajuato. Thanks.
Another enjoyable read. If we are lucky enough to get "old" some of us become more sensitized to the smaller elements around us that at a youthful age, we believed could "wait" until later. That "later" is now.
Amen.