My name's axel
The dead man’s brother
Axel often walks on Thursdays–a Utata tradition. This day he walked the old streets of the small village of Hingene, where his late father was born. The door to one of the village houses was open, and as he passed by he noticed an old man and woman inside engaged in some vague activity.
If the old man hadn’t looked up, very likely none of this would have happened. If Axel hadn’t said ‘hello,’ very likely none of this would have happened. But the old man did look up and Axel did speak. The old man, it turned out, had known Axel’s father when they were both young men. A pleasant coincidence that was tempered by the fact that the old man was there to clear away the belongings of his brother, who had recently died.
Death attaches a new sort of gravity to the commonplace items of life. Yesterday this was just a table and that was just a painting on the wall; today this is the table of my dead brother and that is the painting my dead brother chose for his wall. This table and that painting are now weighted down with memories, the avoirdupois of death. It’s a discomfiting chore, deciding which memories are worth saving, which can be cast aside.
Axel often walks on Thursdays. This day he walked with the dead.
Blog photograph copyrighted to the photographer and used with permission by utata.org. All photographs used on utata.org are stored on flickr.com and are obtained via the flickr API. Text is copyrighted to the author, greg fallis and is used with permission by utata.org. Please see Show and Share Your Work
