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- Herausgeber: Buchman Bookworks, Inc.
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013
-a story of New York- Katrine Feinberg is an acclaimed artist. Her mother’s death reveals a true surprise. She too was an artist, in her youth. A new technology offers Katrine the chance to go back and live for a time in her mother’s memories. A chance to learn how art could be lost. But can she handle the truth when she chooses to Relive the Day!
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Relive the Day!
by Matthew Lieber Buchman
Copyright 2013 Matthew Lieber Buchman
Published by Buchman Bookworks
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof,
may not be reproduced in any form
without permission from the author.
Discover more by this author at: www.buchmanbookworks.com
Cover image:
Cross Roads with Billboard © Skypixel | Dreamstime.com
Other works by this author:
The Night Stalkers
The Night Is Mine
I Own the Dawn
Daniel’s Christmas
Wait Until Dark
Frank’s Independence Day
Peter’s Christmas
Angelo’s Hearth
Where Dreams are Born
Where Dreams Reside
Maria’s Christmas Table
Where Dreams Unfold
Where Dreams Are Written
Dieties Anonymous
Cookbook from Hell: Reheated
Saviors 101
Nara
Monk’s Maze
Swap Out!
1
“Relive the Day!”
Katrine Feinberg would rather be shot than relive this one. She looked away from the damned billboard that drew the eye no matter how often she refused its cheerfully simple design. The things had sprung up like weeds over the last year, a whole new market… billboards over graveyards.
“Before it’s too late!” The unwritten half of the phrase forced its way into her mind, in the same stupid simple font, despite her best efforts to avoid it. She was too tired, that was all that was going on. Tired in body and soul.
Turned from the sign, she was once again forced to look at what lay before her. Beneath the dull gray and drifting snowflakes of the December sky, spread the vast array of a quarter-million Jews all lying under the soil of the Mt. Zion Cemetery in Queens, New York.
Thanks for the Christmas memory, Mom. Okay, perhaps that was a sacrilegious thought considering where her feet were shuffling back and forth trying to stay warm, but the two had now been tied together in her mind. Dead on Christmas Day. Who knew what it would take for her to unblend those two brushstrokes on the canvas of her life.
A tattered black ribbon pinned over her left breast fluttered in the chill breeze. It symbolized the rending of clothes and marked her as one who had lost a parent. The other mourners wore the black ribbon over their right breast, mourning a friend.
Her mama didn’t draw much of a crowd. Mrs. Zimmel and her sister from the brownstone walkup in Brooklyn where her mother, Rachel Feinberg, had lived most of her life until her husband had died and she’d moved in with Katrine two years ago. Three people from the art supply store on Atlantic Ave where she’d worked until just weeks before the tumor took her. That was all that could get the afternoon off at the same time. The owner, Herman Motz, had called and offered to pay for part of the service, but she’d turned him down. He had his own sick mother to tend. A couple of Katrine’s friends had come despite her asking them not to, including the curator of the SoHo Gallery who sold much of her artwork, each of them attending had surprised and touched her more than she expected.
Dead just twenty-four hours and her mother was already sent into the ground. No other family to fly in. No reason to delay what the faith said to do quickly. Katrine had not seen her mother again after they pulled the sheet over her face in the hospital, one did not look upon someone who could not look back. A simple wood casket, no embalming, and only a small spread of her favorite winter jasmine, blooms of yellow resting on the unfinished pine, as it was lowered into the earth. Each mourner spread several shovels of earth into the dark hole, their offer of assistance to the deceased.
Katrine spoke the eulogy in her turn, her voice flat upon the air. What did one say of the dead? She was a good mother. She was proud of my success and supported me in my art when my father had turned his back upon us. She was a quiet woman. She even went to temple on most of the high holidays, more than Katrine could claim. She was content with a simple life.
The rabbi read the psalm in a nasally voice and it was done. They all waited despite the cold and the snow while the gravediggers finished filling the grave. They stood to witness that all was properly done as it should be.
It was an atonement on behalf of the dead, this standing in the snow while listening to the rapid, slick sounds of the shovels and breathing shallowly in caution against the biting air. A final offering for the one who could no longer see, act, or show thanks on their own behalf.
