I heard the news tonight as I stood in the kitchen of our tiny apartment in the West End of Portland, cleaning pots.
Terry Gross's voice cutting through the din of aluminum pans clanging, through the ceaseless flow of thoughts. She caught me mid-air as I moved to grab another one off the counter: "... Peter Matthiessen, who died this weekend."
Time freezes. Like a bell cutting through the forest.
That feeling when you're out in the woods and you sense a great being in your midst. You sense his passing footsteps.
And because of this, you must stop.
I pull up a stool at the kitchen table, slowly sink down and hold my face to the speakers. And the obituary plays out.
Terry Gross's voice cutting through the din of aluminum pans clanging, through the ceaseless flow of thoughts. She caught me mid-air as I moved to grab another one off the counter: "... Peter Matthiessen, who died this weekend."
Time freezes. Like a bell cutting through the forest.
That feeling when you're out in the woods and you sense a great being in your midst. You sense his passing footsteps.
And because of this, you must stop.
I pull up a stool at the kitchen table, slowly sink down and hold my face to the speakers. And the obituary plays out.
