Mother, babe, architect, Mayor. How can death be proud? Pride is for those still moving and aching and naming. It is ours, with our machinations and grasping love, burdened with dis-eased desire for living and remembering.
And for what? Shrubs here are searingly red and gold, and the pond’s surface provocatively placid — November’s witnesses to planetary jitteriness. Physics is against us but death, we are its glad valentine, full of grace.