Marvin Gaye sings “Mercy, Mercy Me,” the rain falls, and the animals sleep on this long Sunday morning, longer than usual because for some reason I woke up long before 8 a.m. As I think of what to say at Lou’s memorial service this afternon and watch the still trees and moving sky, I feel as if I’m inhabiting a small still life, everyone resonant with color and quiet.
The red of the old minivan, the green of the chair, the blue light of the bottle of water, and the fur of the animals glows in hue and tone. The wind lifts a little, then vanishes. The empty coffee cup, the half-read book, the smooth keys of the computer surround me with evidence of a life caught in mid-glimpse. It’s nothing special, and it’s vibrant with one moment’s weight.