For Brian, Somewhere in Upstate South Carolina The hands of the clock meant little to you. Rather, they pointed out concepts, made suggestions, whispered epiphanies. Your muse: a last-minute hey-if-you-get-around-to-it calling from just beyond a wall of fog. But you always showed, and always with an offering: books, music, a kind word. Back left corner: an empty seat. At graduation, your mother’s bowed weeping face, your father’s grim silent nod in my direction across a velvet regalia sea. I fumble across the dusty parquet, and nearly trip on my own useless funnel of a sleeve. Double-major diploma, with honors that you are not here to receive. Somewhere in upstate South Carolina, beneath the cheap tan chenille of winter-fallow fescue, you lie in a burlwood box. My heart still drops. It may never hit bottom. ![]() Bio: R.S. Williams taught college writing for 19 years before starting a new career as a freelance writer-artist-editor. She documents the small things most of us miss: moments when light falls across a wall, a sign, the sky, a face. Her current projects include the photo series For Wes and her debut novel, Songs My Father Barely Knew.
Darlene Taylor
12/28/2017 06:15:59 pm
Beautifully tragic.
Carter Monroe
12/29/2017 03:34:12 am
A tightly woven memorial that does justice to a friendship.
Stewart
12/29/2017 05:41:53 am
Beautiful, in its succinctness and deep humanity. Comments are closed.
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