April 29, 2014 14:55
When a child dies, he becomes incessantly present.
The idea that somewhere in this Polish cemetery a loon sits in a tree makes the picture seem cheery.
(photo credit:AVI KATZ)
THE PICTURE I see each morning when I turn on my computer is of my younger son, Niot, in a graveyard.His hands are on his hips, his head is cocked, his eyes look straight at me, and his lips are pressed into a half-smile that says, “What, you again?” He’s wearing a gray coat, striped on the shoulders with the straps of a red backpack.