Nor for Boudin torn to pieces.
Oh, pray for a stubborn warm good woman, my mother, dead at 94 years, happy to go with the Pietist rites, happy to finally let go, proportionally, traditionally. Much left unsaid, much left unsettled. But tones of voices, touches by the end, the loyalty of being there. For the love that was ever unearned that saved my life in those vicious evil storms. A reconciliation of sorts, far short of what there should have been, but a reconciliation, my ice cold heart at least partially melted. And the proportion of that dignified going, into death as into life. Not a cold going of it. A reconcialiation was achieved, a softness of touch, of heart.
