Mothers of dead sons

In the evening a soft sun was still hanging above the apartments on the other side of the lake as it shimmered from a clearing on the bank. We talked of a mother of a dead son, speculating whether a bond continued to exist between the daughter-in-law and the mother-in-law. Did she matter to son’s wife, after the son had gone? After the link between them has become conspicuously absent, I mean.

Photographer Errol Morris talks of a photograph being decontextualized, torn from the fabric of the life it represents. A photograph cannot be true or false because it is not an opinion, a view. It simply is. A photographer omits the elephant standing outside the frame of a photograph and is there a duty on our part to place a metaphorical elephant in the frame to give it a context?

Didn’t the son give a context to the co-existence of the two women? What if we placed a metaphorical son in this our frame? Think, I said to my wife.

But then there are not two ,but three women. Between them is a dead man, a son, a husband and a father:

Three women

Between us three there is he, a white piece of memory
That defeats us daily by the night, occupying our body,
As fears spread in the belly like a jelly, these silly fears.

He that wore a body till recently is now an idea mainly
That spread from our sleeping body, between our sheets,
In dreams, mainly, to a sky that arched over our body.
Our light shadows coalesce with his own absence of body
Entering our common dreams in our separate sleeps.

( Three women are mother, wife and daughter of a dead man)