It was the woman’s face, shaped into a melting and howling cry, that horrified me, but also something about the awful weight of the dead man laid out across her lap. He was too heavy for her, he nearly crushed her, and even though I could not understand it fully, it seemed to me an unnatural scene. “It is her own son, her dead child,” Father said. He would not look away. Everywhere, even in the blackest abyss, he believed one might witness the divine. The shadows and contrast—absence itself—as important as the light and marble, for one cannot exist without the other.
Yikes
