Tamar shared this beautiful poem, and it made us all think of Everett. It particularly reminded me of watching Everett walk down the hill toward the pond, with his wooden stick in hand.
“Height” by Julien Strong (from the journal The Southern Review)
Each year I lose a little more of it,
the spaces between the vertebrae
slowly sighing closed
like an accordion that after
a full day of playing dances
lets out a long atonal breath—
the exhalation
of every song it ever made
as the musician prepares
to lay the instrument
gently in its box.
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