"...But you must not forget my brother, not now, not next week or next month, and not thereafter."
Around the open grave, family, friends and neighbors gather. By now, the ceremony has almost come to an end, leaving us with the joyful sound of birds hidden in the pines. This Wednesday in July, in any other circumstances, would be a dream-like summer day, perfect enough to last forever.
Something in the tone of his voice has turned that last sentence into a direct and personal order for every individual present today. It is not a question or formal reqest, it's not voluntary either. This is a man who pleads for his brother, a widower now.
the pits of her walking stick
[eerder verschenen op Contemporary Haibun Online, en in Contemporary Haibun - Volume 12]