in loving memory
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The New York Yankees — in loving memory
Twenty-three years is a very long time, yet the freshness of you remains, as fresh as the interest for the New York Yankees which you instilled in me. Baseball is such a banal thing but it fills me with passionate joy, and painful passion. The joy, remembering driving home Wednesday evenings after church, their game…
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You created a beast — in loving memory
You created a beastThis is a monster you createdNo single human, no friend, no family memberNot you, not meNo one — of this I am certain —not a single soul could have ever guessedhow so much love emanating from you to mehow so much strength touching me gentlyhow not answering some of my questions with…
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thread and/or knot — in loving memory
Laces, fine threads, some of gold, some of silk, they may hang, stretch, sway, gently, beautifully, and there is no need to work, to bother, to arrange but leave whichever as is. It is the knot that may occur, attracting needed attention to a specific section which will require attention to be dealt with. Knots…
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life as completion — in loving memory
These can be seen as a collection of thoughts which surround details from memories. It can be seen as a romantic form of mourning, with aspects of redemption, exorcism, wonder, joy. One may also see it as an effort to make life complete, and not merely an unfinished presence on earth. The completion (fulfillment, flourishing)…
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Emulation detailed — in loving memory
I never wanted to be like you. Well, perhaps I ought to rephrase that. It might be quite common for a young boy to wish to be like his father, walking behind him, doing his best effort to walk like him, perhaps eat like him, drink like him, burp like him. I do reckon, each…
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March 11, 2025, in loving memory
Forgive me, Father, for the love in me for you was a silent ocean. Silent, I say in retrospect, with the memory of my eyes, and ears; and silent as I know the ocean today – vibrant, beautiful, dangerous under the surface. Asking for forgiveness is sadness in itself, as the ask inherently implies remorse…
Sila Blume 