peine forte et dure. or something like it.
Jun 1, 2009
He died. Five years ago. I still can’t say his name, or hear it said, without losing my breath. Without feeling like someone has set their lips to mine and sucked all the air from me. Forcibly.
It hurts. A real physical pain. And reminds me, every time, of Giles Corey. Crushed to death. Beneath heavy stones and boards. Peine forte et dure. Beneath the weight of a word. His name…and the color of the paper the funeral home printed his service details upon.
Families have their sacred cows. Some of us make our own. He was mine. But in a good way. His name was Blue. And for whatever reason, I’m thinking about him today.
