From Diane Setterfield's The Thirteenth Tale

People disappear when they die. Their voices, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living mempry of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continut to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humour, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.

--Diane Setterfield



Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Funerals... feelings from so very far, like we've know each other oh so long...

Am I a heartless sick-o for having fun over the weekend?

I met and played and mothered and laughed and cried and froze and cooked and edited and slept and I was so busy with all that, I didn't have to be sad. I know where Megan is, I know my opinion of why she was taken now. I am at peace with her sudden death.

I cried when I saw her, her skin so waxy and the makeup so fake. Everything was wrong looking, the hair was stringy and wet, there was no part in her lips and I don't think her eye lashes were ever that think.

Bless the hands that prepared her, I was supposed to be there.
Posted by at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)