But some lovely recitation from Sonia Vilimnova, a Mandolin (?) version of Silent Night I’ve pilfered from Seymour Jacklin because I just love that he plays that thing (and it’s so pretty!),
Silent Night, performed by Seymour Jacklin
Passing It Down, by Xe Sands. For my dad.
Read by Xe Sands
UPDATED WRITE-UP: I think of my father quite a bit at this time of year. He was the king of gift-giving – obsessive about it, even. Reportedly, one of the last things he said before he lost consciousness was to a fervent demand that my step-mother get holiday wishlists out of my daughter and me. But of course the most amazing gift he gave me was his completely unconditional, unwavering love. And that makes his loss an irreconcilable thing, not that I’m alone in that experience. We all have them – they come from a place of such beauty and love, for only the loss of that can truly be irreconcilable. So I would gladly pay that price an infinite times over, rather than never have been gifted with such a love. For all those who’ve suffered that kind of loss this year, may 2015 mark the beginning of true healing.
So. Right. How this poem wrote itself.
…the other day, as I was moving between the garage and the house – just a mundane moment in my day, I was talking to myself as usual, and made a noise, some sort of exclamation. Just a sound really. And as I reached for the screen door handle, I realized… that was exactly you, that sound was you, one of your exclamations, just coming right out of my mouth. When you were alive, I think I knew that I did that all the time, but I also know now that it didn’t carry the ache with it that it does now. It didn’t feel like I was the only one…saying that. How ridiculous that must sound. But I had this sudden realization that I was the only one making that particular sound now, carrying on the tradition, so to speak. And how utterly lonely that felt for a moment.
And right then, as I was passing into the house, I knew I had to write this down. Told my husband to hold whatever thought he was about to share, cruised to Six Minute Story, chose a blank prompt…and wrote this.
So Dad, this is for you.
Bereft, by Robert Frost
By Robert Lee Frost
Where had I heard this wind before
Change like this to a deeper roar?
What would it take my standing there for,
Holding open a restive door,
Looking down hill to a frothy shore?
Summer was past and day was past.
Somber clouds in the west were massed.
Out in the porch’s sagging floor,
leaves got up in a coil and hissed,
Blindly struck at my knee and missed.
Something sinister in the tone
Told me my secret must be known:
Word I was in the house alone
Somehow must have gotten abroad,
Word I was in my life alone,
Word I had no one left but God.
Tom Jones, Book XI, Chapter9, by Henry Fielding
Read by Mark Turetsky
Book 11 Chapter 9 of Tom Jones.
This is part of an ongoing project in which I will record and post one chapter per week of Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones over the course of four years.
Sophia and Mrs. Fitzpatrick leave the inn with Fitzpatrick’s friend, who doesn’t seem like he has any ulterior motives whatsoever. Also, Sophia realizes that she’s lost her hundred pound note, currently all the money she has in the world since running away from her father.