Tuesday, July 24, 2012
During one of my very first trips to my mother's grave, I carried this ornamental instrument, not quite an oboe, but close enough. We had all sung to my mother in her final days, Christmas songs and hymns, and this delicate piece felt symbolic, lodged, emblematic of my brother's loved wind songs. The earth at Valley Forge has been snowed over, flooded, hailed, gusted, and baked in the years since. My father has planted new fringes of flowers. Deer have stuck their noses close, but somehow the reedy instrument is undaunted. I found it again, just last week, when I went to say hello.
This memory keeps.