This story starts, as do so many, with the kind of quiet, everyday sadness- could we even call it tragedy, it is so small?- with which we live our lives, with which we always have and will have lived our lives. With which our children and their children will live their lives. So, maybe it is too commonplace to be called a tragedy- does the word tragedy not denote extraordinary, one of a kind sadness? Whereas what we are looking at happens to people all the time, so often you don’t even blink when you see it.
Lawrence Ericsson always suffered from poor health, both physical and mental.
‘But he’s a big enough boy,’ people commented. ‘No muscle, wiry as hell, but still… a big old son of a gun.’
‘Hey, Golem, salut,’ the old Jews would chuckle when they saw him. ‘Tallest man I know, but mister, you need feeding up.’
But he is not long for this life, he is not long on earth; the wind is blowing, death is coming for him. It will freeze the Golem’s heart, but will it return him unto dust, or will those who laughed at him in life find their dreams disquieted…?
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