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Hi, my name is Siduh
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Story 

Not of Stone But of Spirit

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Story Rating   5  with 4 vote(s)
Created: 2004-12-11 17:51:27 All stories by
“What do you remember about him Siduh?” she asked softly.

At first I didn’t know how to reply. A million different answers rushed into my mind all at

once, setting me adrift on a sea of uncertainty. I fought my way through the confusion of trying

to tell Hannah about someone she had never known, painting a picture for her in words.

“I remember lazy afternoons fishing. We never kept them though– sunfish are too small. No,

we’d laugh and throw them back in, whisking our fishing poles through air as bright and clear as

sunlight, bright as the bellies of those fat little fish. When they weren’t biting, we’d lie under the

willows and talk like grown-ups.

“I remember a house nestled back in the woods, where we’d pick blackberries in the summer

and drop them into silver pails I could never seem to fill. I remember a stream that cut through

the trees like a blue silk ribbon, and I’d wet my toes there when it was hot. He’d catch a

crawdad– a lobster kind of thing– and asked if I wanted to hold it. I’d just squirm and he’d laugh

and let it scuttle away back behind the pebbles. I never saw one pinch him. Ever.

“I remember a dog, a mutt with floppy ears, the only dog I’ve ever knew who could smile. His

name was Fella, or Buddy, or something. We had to sell him after…” I let my voice trail away

into silence, and swallowed the lump in my throat. It was so hard to think about, even now.

Hannah looked at me, her green eyes soft.

“I wish I’d known him,” my baby sister said. Even as a child, she was always serious. I never

understood why we called her ‘the baby’. I was the one on the verge of tears.

When Hannah spoke again, I didn’t know what to tell her. “ I wish there had been a

monument. You know, a way to remember him,” Hannah sighed.

I looked at her strangely, and my voice caught twice before I could speak. What I said

surprised even me.

“There is a monument, Hannah. Those memories I told you about– they are his monument.

They will stand forever, in our minds and hearts, as living monuments to how he lived.

Grandfather was a good man, Hannah. And good men don’t need stone pillars or flower-draped

caskets to make people remember them.”

She nodded and her hand touched mine. For a moment, we were united in grief. For a

moment, the monument stood tall. Like a wall which we could turn to in harsh times.

Grandfather’s memory revealed itself in the form of a story written in tears and laughter. For a

moment, he was alive again. Then I realized a greater truth.

That is the power of a monument. Not of stone, but of spirit. That is the power of a memory.

Not in writing, but in love. That is the power of a person. Not in flesh, but in feeling. “I wish

he was still alive,” Hannah murmured.

I turned to my baby sister and hugged her. “He still is,” I whispered. “He still is.”
  

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