I left the island to go into the city for a meeting at noon. It was hotter still in the city. Ironically, in the 1800's, houses were built on the island where I live so that the city dwellers could escape the heat and get out into the country. Not much escaping the heat over the last few weeks no matter where you are.
His wife had posted a poem by Galway Kinnell that she wanted to be shared with E.'s rowing friends:
Those we love from the first
can't be put aside or forgotten,
after they die they still must be cried
out of existence, tears must make
their erratic runs down the face,
over the fullnesses, into
the craters, confirming,
the absent will not be present,
ever again. Then the lost one
can fling itself outward, its million
moments of presence can scatter
through consciousness freely, like snow
collected overnight on a spruce bough
that in midmorning bursts
into glittering dust in the sunshine.
I took a few photos, inscribed a message on the bike, and then left. I felt as if I were trespassing in a way. For a moment I couldn't see. Maybe it was the glittering dust that got in my eyes or just the brightness of the sun.
The funeral is tomorrow. After that, I think that we will just go home and relax. This will likely be a weekend on land. I don't want to take the old dog out on the boat in this heat. There is a good meeting on Saturday evening that we can both attend. But basically we have no plans. The weekend is a blank slate as well. Some how that seems like a good thing.