We were driving down the roads of childhood, though it was now I who cradled him under my arm. My father’s urn bore his name in gold on the lid: Claude Courchay 1933-2024. What is left when a writer dies? The question doesn’t suggest the gears of ceremony and bureaucracy set in motion by the demise, the particularities of each passing, the longer or shorter trips, the numbers of
Dear Diego: Your lovely description of your findings at your father’s appartment and later at the hospital are moving. In search of clues to learn about his last hours, the triggering of his writing. A sober recount worth reading. May he rest in peace.
This is touching, beautiful writing.
Rest in peace to your father.
Dear Diego: Your lovely description of your findings at your father’s appartment and later at the hospital are moving. In search of clues to learn about his last hours, the triggering of his writing. A sober recount worth reading. May he rest in peace.