(So sad to hear about the passing of writer Harper Lee. Such sad news, she had a huge impact on my mother, and society as a whole. In remembrance, and for my mother, I thought I would share this again.)
At home, as a child, there was always a copy of To Kill A Mockingbird on the book case. It’s orange cover, with embossed white lettering, reflecting an innocence that seemed to echo the translucent paragraphs that I was too young to understand.
As I grew, the world grew too. To a new pitch that blankets those truths in an absence of stars, laid bare like the convulsions of a mad dog in the heat of July. We say, “we all long to share as a continuum of emotive comparison”. Yet, the hammer of our distance comes down like the breaking of kindling and the neglect of a jury.
The mockingbird laying at our feet. The fragmented shuffling of human compassion as little more than tinder unseen. No longer the heart that shifts on wings of smokey realisation, but the broken promise. The virtue removed. The solace that brought the music caught in the purity of each other’s souls, now ragged and reformed.
And oh, how we make sure to never feel sorry for it.
We run away!
Into the forests of inconsistent dreams, where cruelty batters those simple taunts in guilt and pity. Screaming, “We wear the skin as long as it suits our own needs.”
And Atticus sits on his porch, wondering where little Scout flew away too. As the cold winter comes in. One snowy night at a time.
© Phen Weston 2015