Mors Sanctissima Non Stupuit, Day Five (Foto--Piers)

Dear Piers,
° I slept so well last night. At two I wakened from a dream of a mother and son, tenants on the farm, who were washing clothes and hanging them on the outside of a barn, under the roof overhang, to dry. And yes, the rain had picked up, was actually a downpour. Well we need it. Of course the washing dream was preposterous, such a thing never happened. I was just dozing off when I recollected that the mother and son were dead.
° My waking dream was me at the threemanual console of a pipe organ. All the keys were level, I thought it would really strain the hands to play it. The keys were painted over with a thick middarkblue paint. The stops were in no sort of order at all. I tried the cornet, it turned out to be a very acute, very thinnish sort of cymbel instead. I tried the trompette, it was very fine indeed. But I gave it all up when I noticed that the bench was tottering backwards, and that there was enough fall behind to give one a concussion. I thought about gmailing you, thought you’d be interested that some church had so feckless an instrument.
° It’s so disrespectful to feel any normal feelings, any normal interests at a time like this. But I did forget everything yesterday while I was gardening. I do feel the lure of the Bouvier gossip. I feel normal.
° The lower Terrace is flooded, such a rain. Crook has thrown up on the porch. Asia’s toilet needs cleaning, in the worse of two ways.
° No light is flashing, no phone call. No panic, no rush. I’m writing to you.

° The phone rings, I rush to save the document, but pick up while my brother is still talking. There’re two messages on the answering machine, it was while I was emptying the litter box.
° At 8 o’clock this morning Mother died. My brother and sisterinlaw had spent the night in the room, had been home for about an hour when the first call came to them.
° The paperwork begins in earnest at 11 o’clock, then the “closure” service and family viewing, then casket closed forever, then visitation off and on till Friday. Phone calls, gmails, food.
° How do I feel? I don’t know. At 8 o’clock I felt fine, I didn’t even feel so very guilty about feeling fine. At 8:15 I feel fine, or maybe numb, which is also fine.
° I didn’t know the morphine would still leave Death looking like that, I didn’t want Mother to continue to look like that.
° It’s 8:30, and I’m not feeling fine at all, my eyes are welling up. I love you and all my family and all my beasts.

° Giac.