…we were different boys, we were brave new boys without a Mum. So when he told us what happened I don’t know what my brother was thinking but I was thinking this:Where are the fire engines? Where is the noise and clamour of an event like this? Where are the strangers going out of their way to help, screaming, flinging bits of emergency glow-in-the-dark equipment at us to try and settle us and save us?There should be men in helmets speaking a new and dramatic language of crisis. There should be horrible levels of noise, completely foreign and inappropriate for our cosy London flat.

…we were different boys, we were brave new boys without a Mum. So when he told us what happened I don’t know what my brother was thinking but I was thinking this:Where are the fire engines? Where is the noise and clamour of an event like this? Where are the strangers going out of their way to help, screaming, flinging bits of emergency glow-in-the-dark equipment at us to try and settle us and save us?There should be men in helmets speaking a new and dramatic language of crisis. There should be horrible levels of noise, completely foreign and inappropriate for our cosy London flat.

– Max Porter –

Grief is the Thing with Feathers

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