Sometimes, questions are more hurtful than insults. - Mitch Albom

"You'll come to my grave? To tell me your problems?"

My problems?

"Yes.'

And you'll give me answers?

"I'll give you what I can. Don't I always?"

I picture his grave, on the hill, overlooking the pond, some little nine foot piece of earth where they will place him, cover him with dirt, put a stone on top. Maybe in a few weeks? Maybe in a few days? I see myself sitting there alone, arms across my knees, staring into space.

It won't be the same, I say, not being able to hear you talk.

"Ah, talk . . . "

He closes his eyes and smiles.

"Tell you what. After I'm dead, you talk. And I'll listen.

Silence was his escape, but silence is rarely a refuge. His thoughts still haunted him.

Soon man will count all his days, and then smaller segments of the day, and then smaller still — until the counting consumes him, and the wonder of the world he has been given is lost.