I am sitting in my Mamaw’s chair in her room looking out her big
picture window. She died a few months
ago at the age of 99. Died right here in
this room, an ancient of days. The sky
is clear, the sun is shining and it is bitter cold, 12°. I don’t know why I am writing this except it
seems I might be doing the most profound thing I will do today.
“I asked him if he ever wished to write his thoughts. He said that he had read and written letters
for those who could not, but he never tried to write thoughts—no, he could not,
he could not tell what to put first, it would kill him, and then there was spelling
to be attended to at the same time!”
Walden by Thoreau, pg. 94
 |
Sitting with another Ancient of Days, along with Betty and Sarah in Kings Canyon NP, California, |
No comments:
Post a Comment