A moody breeze rustles the flowers surrounding a weather stained cross.
It simply marks a forgotten loss,
Perhaps a life stolen or death met with aged dignity.
We persist as ash.
We persist as dust.
We persist in memory.
Eroded by the rain.
Scattered by the wind.
Faded by the sun.
September 10, 1998 train ride from NY to Toronto, reflecting on my father’s mortality.