Today Carol and I enjoyed a picnic at the place where Patrick died.
As with flesh, our stone cairn, built in May, had collapsed, the program lost. We built it again, restored the New Yorker to the pile, added a flower, posed for pictures beside it.
A Mallorquin family had set up a table nearby, gathered together for a leisurely lunch. We trundled past them, closer to the edge, and sat down upon the rocks overlooking distant sailboats and fincas.
With champagne and Brie and olives and jamon serrano we enjoyed the peacefulness of the scene, another perfect day with a perfect view of a perfect sea, defined by a perfect mountain island.
After a time, the family repacked the food, stowed the small table, climbed into their small white delivery van, and drove away, leaving us alone.
But where were the birds?
Carol noticed the unusual silence, the lack of nightingales and sparrows, robins and jays and swallows.
How curious this music would be absent on such a brilliant day.
Or was it so in order to enhance the tranquillity of the moment?
I’m the son of Patrick of Meadows.