His father had died. He was gone. Perhaps he and his father never were. He took forty cups and forty dishes. Tabled each cup and saucer. He extended his right arm holding a plate and cup. Separated thumb and forefinger: the cup and saucer were dashed against the ground.
The wake was a locked drawer. The relatives were as absent, dumb truths. Words filled with the inexplicable. Evoked, as in a closed level crossing, without going further.
Barefoot in the living, not static cut, for displaying images of the funeral itself again and again. He threw the plate and the tenth tenth cup hoping to survive. The pottery was shattered pieces of flowers, filigree, fruits and handles.
mortuary in the children wrote on a blackboard. Unspoken words they wrote. An older man's lectured without understanding. Without understanding that children do not know of sins. Some brats crawling up the stairs of the steps. They kissed their mothers, in the next step kissed their wives and their lovers kissed break.
had thought many times the murder. His father, always so wise, he was overtaken. So wise in his coffin.
With the last cup and the last plate suspended in the air, he knew he would dedicate the rest of his life to resurrect.
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