| Tasha's Photos |
| This is the weekend we remember. This is the time we our hearts grow sable dark and brood, as though there is a silence in the yard, a stillness along the fence behind the birdbath, under the cherry guava hedge. On the 8th day of April, 2000, our beloved Stella crossed the bridge. Now we remember a puppy in the grass, a steadfast and often prescient friend of 13 years, kisses and toys and long bounding runs on the trails above the sea. May my heart never relent in its breaking. |
| HUNTER'S HORN At night in the woods, even the bonfires of memory fade. The faces around us disappear. So we watch, or sleep. There is a horn or a bagpipe far away, behind the hill. We could make a sound of equal sadness, as if the rain were softly falling on the cold ground, on the abandoned plow that leans into twilight, the horse gone back to the barn alone. A fox is stirring somewhere on the rugged hill, so as the fires die at some small cold hour, through the trees we hear the crying of the dogs. Copyright 1998 by Kyle Kimberlin |
| Kyle's note marking the second anniversary of Stella's death, on April 8, 2002: |
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| Note: float your cursor over each photo, to see the note that might be scribbled on the back, if these weren't digital photos. |
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