(Witness also that when we talk about literature, we do so in the present tense. When we speak of the dead, we are not so kind.)
You do not immortalize the lost by writing about them. Language buries, but does not resurrect.
(Full disclosure: I am not the first to make this observation. cf, the MacLeish poem “Not Marble, Nor the Gilded Monuments,”
which contains the heroic line “I shall say you will die and none will remember you.”)
I digress, but here’s the rub: The dead are visible only in the terrible lidless eye of memory.
The living, thank heaven, retain the ability to surprise and to disappoint.
Your Hazel is alive, Waters, and you mustn’t impose your will upon another’s decision, particularly a decision arrived at thoughtfully.
She wishes to spare you pain, and you should let her. You may not find young Hazel’s logic persuasive,
but I have trod through this vale of tears longer than you, and from where I’m sitting, she’s not the lunatic.
Yours truly, Peter Van Houten. It was really written by him.
I licked my finger and dabbed the paper and the ink bled a little, so I knew it was really real.
“Mom,” I said. I did not say it loudly, but I didn’t have to.
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