where the writers are
Funerary Urn


I had lost my eldest son, my first baby... born on an island, far out at sea.

But, I have the Funerary Urn that holds him now, close by me.

I have the book I wrote that enabled me to laugh again, because I had forgotten how to laugh, after he died.

During his illness, my son was sure that my silly stories would make people smile and chuckle and forget about how damn, bitter life can be.

My book, 'Orgasmic Catalog', is nearby, too...on a book shelve, near the Funerary Urn that his father made, maybe thinking then about its potential purpose...but, not knowing that his own son's ashes might take refuge in it.

Now, we take solace in its becoming our son's home after death.

My loss grew as I realized my younger and now, only son, grieved because of the vacant place beside him... at the dinner table, during evening walks and in the office...the place where his older brother always forged ahead with laughter and ease.

My youngest son's lost brother made light shine in as he fearlessly thrashed aside the jungle growth to expose the desert terrain and galaxies of the universe.

My loss continued to grow as I realized my mate and father of my son could no longer practice medicine as he was trained to do.

I watched him fall into his own abyss of darkness and silence where I could not reach or touch his shattered heart.

When I lost my first -born son, as a twenty-one-year-old young man...more than his ashes were gently placed into the Funerary Urn.

More than my son's ashes are close by me.