I’ll make a sound that whoever hears it will weep in their souls …

Ray Bradbury, in The Fog Horn

[My wife Sylvia’s birthday is October 5th.  I write this in remembrance of her.]

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I am a Scot.  A New Englander.  I am Boston where the damp wind is hard and blunt, and sea and cold so near.  Where the hearth never so warm – where your gentle voice was my peace and strength.

I was weened on the nor’easter with its gales and sideways rain.  You were my sun.

Now I am old and I sit in the highlands and look at the mountains and the mist as it settles in the valleys and hides the hill tops and peaks.  The magical mist.  A sacred curtain.

The mist pulls me back to the cold wind, the dampness and my mystery, to you and those whose seeds are mine and you my master gardener.  My ground never so soft as in your hands.

Alone now in the mist and autumn chill I find you.

I live in fallen shadows, and storms within.  Yet, in the mist and wind, you call me.  On cold autumn nights you visit.  Awaken me.  Stand by my beside.  Speak my name.  Your voice still the same.

You beckon and I rise.  Outside we walk in highland winds into the sacred mist.

One, once again.

You touch my face. The winds wail. I am warm again.

I’ll make a voice to call across the water … a voice like all of time and all the fog that ever was … a voice like an empty bed beside you all night long, and like an empty house when you open the door, and like autumn trees with no leaves.  A sound like the birds flying south, crying, and a sound like November wind and the sea on the hard, cold shore.  I’ll make a sound that’s so alone … whoever hears it will weep in their souls … I’ll make a sound whoever hears it will know … eternity and the briefness of life.

Ray Bradbury, in The Fog Horn

Alone now in the mist and autumn chill I find you … in the mist and wind, you call me … you beckon and I rise …

Shalom.

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