Typically I write blog posts early in the morning. Today I woke and brewed some coffee and walked out into the yard, my American suburban plot and stood under the old apple trees and I wept. (Picture a man in his sixties wearing only a bathrobe crying in a remote corner where it was likely no one could see him.)
My father died on Easter Sunday twenty one years ago and how I miss him. We must talk to the dead in quiet and shy ways and like everyone else I do. But the tears come without warning as they did today with the first sun on my face.
When I returned to the house I decided to put writing aside. I chose to sit and serve my father well with my silence.
Out of this silence come bells.