Monday, 1 December 2014
And the Father’s ‘syntax’, the idiosyncratic way that he had disturbed and reinvented the world, would live on in one sense only briefly, in the fenced garden, the memories of M., his Mother, his Sister, his Uncle, in the anecdotes told to him at the funeral, when a man from his Father’s work, from twenty years ago, had approached him and said “I don’t need to ask who you are, you’re obviously the son.” No one had been around to translate into language that peculiar form of life. It didn’t matter. For his Father, in creating and then re-tracing the lines, the signature of his character, the paths and waterways of his nature, had placed, in the great ledger of Being, an unannulable proof. His life would always be, eternally, one of the possible lives, something which, even if no-one remembered it would be memorable, even if no-one remembered it would not have been sunk with death’s sudden flood.