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eredienHad a dream last night wherein a man, dressed smartly and looking sad, came to the door with only a small manlia envelope in his hands.
He didn't say, "I'm sorry," just handed me the envelope and left because there was nothing more to say.
Because the second I saw the envelope, I knew, of course, what had happened.
My father was dead, and those were his personal effects--some few photographs, a watch my great-grandfather had during WWI, other small things.
There would be no body, no ashes.
He had been incinerated, completely, when the miniatom blast went off.
There is a scene, then, shot in color with the white balance high and glaring because of the angle of the sun shining on the white wall and the red, red sand.
Three men in camo fatigues, on a special mission from the army. Two of them duck down, one of them sits up just a moment too long. The blast is very pretty, very small, and leaves a man-with-a-machine-gun shaped outline against the white, white wall. They're referencing that Bradbury story, I think to myself seeing this. And the red sand shishes along under the yellow hot sun.
The envelope has two cardboard circles on it that the string ties under; both the string and circles are red. I don't open the envelope. I put it down on the table instead.
I look up and notice the suncatchers in the window, the small red strawberry with the smooth glass and the large red apple with the bumpy glass. The kitchen is bright, and rather smaller than I remember, as I was only four the last time I was in that particular kitchen, the one in the old house, and happy.
--
My subconscious fucks with me awfully. Had to write it down, or it would have sat in my brain all day and festered.
He didn't say, "I'm sorry," just handed me the envelope and left because there was nothing more to say.
Because the second I saw the envelope, I knew, of course, what had happened.
My father was dead, and those were his personal effects--some few photographs, a watch my great-grandfather had during WWI, other small things.
There would be no body, no ashes.
He had been incinerated, completely, when the miniatom blast went off.
There is a scene, then, shot in color with the white balance high and glaring because of the angle of the sun shining on the white wall and the red, red sand.
Three men in camo fatigues, on a special mission from the army. Two of them duck down, one of them sits up just a moment too long. The blast is very pretty, very small, and leaves a man-with-a-machine-gun shaped outline against the white, white wall. They're referencing that Bradbury story, I think to myself seeing this. And the red sand shishes along under the yellow hot sun.
The envelope has two cardboard circles on it that the string ties under; both the string and circles are red. I don't open the envelope. I put it down on the table instead.
I look up and notice the suncatchers in the window, the small red strawberry with the smooth glass and the large red apple with the bumpy glass. The kitchen is bright, and rather smaller than I remember, as I was only four the last time I was in that particular kitchen, the one in the old house, and happy.
--
My subconscious fucks with me awfully. Had to write it down, or it would have sat in my brain all day and festered.
(no subject)
9/9/03 13:50 (UTC)*hughug*