“Once upon a time there were two boys who purposefully misremembered things about their father. It made them feel better if they ever forgot things about their mother.
There were a lot of equations and transactions in their small family. One boy dreamed he had murdered his mother. He checked it wasn’t true, then a put a valuable silver serving spoon that his father had inherited in the bin. It was missed. He felt better.
One boy lost the treasured lunchbox note from his mother saying ‘good luck’. He cried alone in his room, then threw a toy car at his father’s framed Coltrane poster. It smashed. He felt better. The father dutifully swept up all the glass and understood.
There were a lot of punishments and anticipations in their small family.“
- An excerpt from Grief is the thing with feathers, a book by Max Porter.
Eight years ago it was hard work and I could remember it only vaguely.
I read it for the second time this morning. It felt brand new, easy, fun and hearbreaking. Part memoir, part sound-poem. A bit more than 100 pages long. No more than 18 thousand words. The ‘missing’ in the life of a young family after the mother dies suddenly is palpable. In the background rings the sound of a crow flapping its wings. One big black feather has dropped on the ground. It lies near my right foot.
PS: Losing a parent or a close relative or friend at a young age puts the young at a high risk of suicide.
