And so it goes my beloved son. Here we are in this silent final resting place, a beautiful lake facing you and a a very tall tree standing at your shoulders. I am but a few feet away sitting in my car with my thoughts drifting to life and time.
Time moves on inexorably for all of us. We try to somehow control it through pictures and memories, flashes that traverse our minds as film on a screen depicting the past.
Father time ambles on, solitary, with the brim of his hat lowered on the forehead, the sad smile, the white beard, and as painted, a small tear, frozen, limpid and pure on his forehead.
Time moves on with all that 'beautiful' that every season of life brought him. And when a person has finished to write his book, when all that had to be said and done, was said and done …then it is only right that time would continue in his walk.
My dearest son, the tree towering at your shoulders, appears almost dead in the cold and solitude of winter reflecting on the frozen lake.
But for every leaf that it sheds in the fall, there is a hidden bud ready to harvest in the spring. It will overcome the winter, and the coldness of solitude …in reality, within itself, an explosion is about to be born.
An explosion of color and balm that in a warm day of spring will come to light.
Your heart, my beloved little boy, your heart is that tree housing
that bud, ready to face the cold of winter and to be reborn to life in the spring.
Losing that leaf … has been for us ...an immense sorrow that will never abate. But the happiness of seeing a new bud in the spring, ready to spread vigor and beauty, has succeeded to render much deeper and sublime the sound of that leaf falling to the ground.