When we were kids and traveled to the beach, my godfather always came with us. Sometimes, he had to return home a few days earlier. On the farewell at the bus station, we would cry as if the parting would be forever. Many years later, when my godfather died, I did not cry. My brother did not cry. There was silence in the graveyard. And sun. My aunt began to sing on her own in a trembling voice and, out of all that blue, everyone was singing in the middle of the silence. Mother was crying softly, while the people were singing under the strong sun, and there was no wind. When my godfather died, it was not for real.
Vincent van Gogh. Sunflowers, 1889.
Advertisements
