A man walks onto a roof of a tall building in a busy downtown. He's holding a goose down pillow in his left hand. In his right, a long, sharp, pair of silver scissors. The air is swirling. You're looking up from the sidewalk. You can see his hair tussled by the breeze. With a quick jab, slash, and cut, one end of the white pillow is opened. The man drops the shears and frantically shakes the pillow. Feathers burst out into wind, some covering the man, the rest ride the current. Floating and falling the feathers drift over a city block attaching themselves to men, women, children, and other animals. Some are trapped in the draft of vehicles rushed further along to other parts of town. Years later you're walking in another part of town and you spot goose down on a ledge, in the park, and on the brim of a cap.
And a rumor spreads that easily and is never completely dispelled. Yesterday, while making a presentation to a group who invited me to their meeting, I was reminded of the impossibility of gathering feathers. The first question posed was "Did Aaron crash on purpose? I thought I heard that he did." Somewhere there is a Dane County Sheriff, and deputy coroner who's names I forget every chance I get.
Later in the morning I took a call from a 29 year old dad. His son died 2 days after birth. He wanted to talk.
Posts
