Published on January 25, 2007 By DrDonald In Writing
A new-fallen snow. The painful silence of an anechoic chamber it sponges up the sounds of the city, save one. The haunting whistle of the two o'clock train. Sounding off more often now.

Last week that train killed a man. It beat the Afghani refugee in a race. Delivering pizza up the hill. A judgement. I distanced myself from that pain. But. That was his second job. And, his wife, seven children will never forget. While the city below my escarpment view seems to take it all in stride. A thousand smaller dramas eclipse it. The man was an artist. A painter. His children hold his brush now. Ever more. His work done.

on Jan 25, 2007
Dr - this captured the massive silence of tragedy, somewhat close-up and personal.

thanks for this profound sketch,
on Jan 25, 2007
I delayed commenting on this because I just could not find the right word for it - so it is with thanks to Buddah that I say profound - very profound...this is the right word.
on Jan 25, 2007
thanks for this profound sketch

I agree. Thank you..
on Jan 25, 2007
Thank you all. I corrected the nationality and the number of children. I woke up this morning thinking of him, so the details were kind of fuzzy as I wrote. They blocked off the escarpment road all that day. Here's the cached link:

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