Saying goodbye is filled with feeling. The end of something holds within it the weight of the thing itself, in its entirety. It is here where we decide to let it die, to let go of it. Like the end of any artistic work - it's complicated. Often cut short by a deadline, a plane flight, a death. Business interests, the inevitable transience of time and value.
Today, Mom and I are returning east. From the first trip visiting my grandparents in ten years - certainly the first in this body, this state of mind. It was a first contact, and it's a lot to let go of.
The televisions in the airport report on the shooting of Stephon Clark. He shares our last name.
How we become numb to this abuse. The abuse of family, as well as of culture.