Thank you, Stefan

 

For my birthday, my only begotten son gifted me this plein air landscape. Many would find it an odd choice; his sister, a comically odd one. But I do not, unduly, though it did bemuse and raise a smile. Having grown up next door to a cemetery, I find them familiar places, homey even, a little melancholy, perhaps, but restful, quiet, still, old-timey, slow to change, literary, serious—grave. Like me. It is not unwise to consider Death next door. And I’ve visited my brother at one, All Saints, for almost fifty years now, the brother for whom my son is named, which lends his gift a particular and appropriate resonance. And while I don’t propose at last to rest in peace in one myself, cemeteries, and any image of one, are trenchant mementos mori. Reminders of mortality on any occasion are a true gift, as is mortality.