Whose Name is Writ in Water- Feb 3rd- Chris Ritchey
I think of part of this quote a great deal, as the days bleed into weeks , months and years- “name was writ in water”
One of the documented origins “A version of the words originate from Beaumont and Fletcher’s play Philaster, 1611:
“All your better deeds Shall be in water writ, but this in Marble.”
But it is Keats headstone that makes one ponder – another young man who died at the age of 25- a poet
“Keats travelled to Rome and died there, aged just 25, in February, 1821. He told his friend Joseph Severn that he didn’t want his name to appear on his tombstone, but merely this line:
“Here lies one whose name was writ in water.”
It will happen to us all even the most famous will fade – once living memory of our lives is lost in the future generations- a leaf on an ancestry dot come site of the future . We are but a ripple that lasts but a minute in the great oceans of time and lives.
It is to be expected but to lose one’s son or daughter before they have lived their life allotment of three score years and ten causes the parent left to drown in that vast ocean of life; only to keep washing back up onto the rocks to be pulled under once more as you catch your breath briefly before the next onslaught.
Every mother I have spoken to or corresponded with has the great fear their child will be forgotten. It is a terrible burden we take upon ourselves – the remembering.
Any sense of life before or happiness that creeps into our lives is tainted with guilt- a guilt- we are living a life- guilt we may be forgetting our child. As our lives continue, their voice starts fading , the smell of them, the sound of their laughter we struggle to maintain.
We visit those last days -the memory closer to the present, but that memory is crippling. We go to that place of pain because once again we can see their face , feel the touch of their hand. You see those last days are imprinted , carved deep into our being, when we looked upon your face. We drank in every nuance, every line , we watched every beat of your heart on the monitors , the feeling of your hand squeezing mine when words could not reach through machines.
Those last hours are there, waiting, the long nights and tears cannot erase those memories. Even knowing , going to that place will cripple and destroy any peace , a mother will enter just to see her son her daughter once more- the pain excruciating but not going there is worse. It is a world as real as the present.
We don’t want their lives to be forgotten because they had so little time to live them. – their names truly writ in water. I write your name in the air – the inner space of the internet – where once again your works appear, your story told and a love professed by a mother for her son and his life lived through his name . A love that has no where to go as that love was yours alone ……
Entry filed under: Chris Ritchey, death, grief, Love, men of substance, Mothers. Tags: Chris Ritchey, Christopher D. Ritchey, Christopher Ritchey, christopher ritchey lorain, death, dying child, Love, mothers and sons.