THE NANJINGER | 2022.05
My late grandfather’s name abides in historyan heroic epithet of times past, engraved in brass. It rose high above this earth to face dark, flacked fears that those dear might breathe free air. When he passed, flags dipped. A bugle called The Last Post. My father’s name in stoneware is impressedintemporally held in the very earth out of which his dreams find form, tested and hardened in flame, his name will ever live in the changing shapes and slips, borne of many hours of art, of craft, and of his love. Will my name, on a shifting shore, be etched in sandpic’ed, swallowed by a trillion bytes and, in an unforgiving sea of likes or retweets, be drowned? How has it come to be that our names might now lack legacy? That they now rot into obscurity long before our dusk. Yet, let each rising son bring hope…
By M ait iu Bra lligan ‘2 2
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