He Thinks of the Deceased as the Seasons Change

It's mid-August, and already I can feel autumn in the New York City air. It's something almost imperceptible and difficult to describe. Maybe it's the texture of the breeze, maybe it's atoms and molecules that make up the smells emanating from the rough and broken concrete sidewalks. Maybe it's the sound of the rustling in the trees. I don't know if growing up in this city has given me a hyper-sensitivity to this change of seasons. All I know is that I can feel it in my nerves, in my muscles, in the movement of my bones. It's a sense of motion, it's a sense of stagnation. It's loss and it's infinite possibility. It arouses in me a yearning for the past and simultaneously propels me, ill-prepared as I am, into the future. The Earth is rotating on its axis and moving in its orbit. Always the same, and always different. Consistent and ephemeral. Those that are gone return to me with increased clarity. I feel their presence more strongly, yet I am more keenly aware of the vast distance between us.

I was at the Metropolitan Museum of Art with a friend recently. Walking through the vast, majestic halls, we stopped to take in the Asian art. I was struck by a Chinese Scroll, entitled the Classic of Filial Piety by Li Gonglin, written in 1085. Landscapes and writing, preserved over nine hundred years. And the translation:

"Mourning for the Loss of a Parent - He thinks of the deceased as the seasons change"
The two of you went off in a boat
Floating far away
Longingly I think of You
My heart within is Pained