Apparently, thirty years have passed.
Which means I was in my thirties, my daughter about to be born and my son already.
It’s difficult for me to remember a time without them being a part of my every day.
And yet I remember this day, thirty years ago.
It was a Sunday.
I think I was driving when it happened, ironic in a way as the accident happened in a car.
My wife’s grandmother, my son’s great grandmother, looked ashen when we walked in.
“He crashed,“ she said.
“I was surprised that she was interested in motor racing, I associated her more with baking and knitting.
It just goes to show who wrong you can be.
Even though I myself am not overtly interested in motor racing, I was aware that he was something special.
A complex, uncompromising genius is how the newspaper describes him today.
My son stood for the first time in Elena’s front room where she had been sitting watching the race.
So she saw both things happen.
The one full of joy and future expectation.
The other empty, yet full of loss.
Life and death, the two extremes of our existence.
Uncompromising can be a quality.
We are all complex, to a degree.
Few of us touch genius.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment