OCR Text |
Show Moon - 49 What else is there but what we see-even if others tell us not to see? Or not to hear. The real words are so often not the words being said aloud. I know your voice; it's like mine: the words underneath the words flow like yellow leaves below our feet. You wanted someone simply to stretch out his hand like those kindly porters and lift you up to the train. Behind dusty velvet curtains, you wanted that cradle endlessly rocking with the click of the tracks, reminding you of lilacs, you didn't know why. And then there was your mind which was maybe brilliant. What good was that, you ask. I want to tell you that this mind is the best part of me. Now that I'm no longer in school I am discovering this. It is probably not a "useful" mind. It holds everything at once, and this results more often than not in a kind of sputtering and splash that puts people off. Even so, there's something special here, a gift from you to me. Near the end, you spoke of writing to some senator whom you claimed was a distant relative. You thought he might help you. It was not clear just what sort of help you had in mind. - It was such talk that led James and Alice and the others to say you'd gone mad. But I say, your mind was excellent even then, for it was trying to speak the truth of the heart. Mother, you asked me to send you copies of my art, and I didn't, not often enough. So, now, here's a picture: A rare New York day when the city glows in light as clear as glass. A sharp blue sky cleaning up the tenements and |