I drink coffee with my dad, before i leave for a 2 hours drive to the west coast. My dad tells me a story, it seems to come out of the blue. About one year before i was born, his sister gave birth to a little boy. My dad said that the kid was 2 months early, it had lived in a couveuse (glass box) for several days before it died.
This story is hitting me real hard. I rush into the car, and i start crying for about half an hour. Somewhere deep inside me a contact is made. I feel so relieved that this boy, whom i had never heard of, is recognized to have existed. I feel the connection between the child's grave and the glass box, and i get to understand why the people left. There were no words at that time.
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