Marleen Hulst

A Wednesday in July

"…But you must not forget my brother, not now, not next week or next month, and not thereafter."

Around the open grave, family, friends and neighbors gather. By now the ceremony has almost come to an end, leaving us with the joyful sound of birds hidden in the pines. This Wednesday in July, in any other circumstances, would be a dream-like summer day, perfect enough to last forever.

Something in the tone of his voice has turned that last sentence into a direct and personal order for every individual present today. It is not a question or formal request, it's not voluntary either. This is a man who pleads for his brother, a widower now.

rose garden
the pits of her walking stick
visible