Jacob

“And then we spoke of the weather, which had been awfully hot. After that, unable to think of anything more to say, we fell into a silence that was troubled and unwelcome. Trying to end it, I said finally, “Well, we’ve had a time,” speaking of the weather. And Mat said, “Yes, we’ve had a time,” speaking of the war. We spoke in very general terms, then, of the war and other trials of life in this world. Mat said, “Everything that will shake has got to be shook.” “That’s Scripture,” I said, and he nodded. Thinking to try to comfort him, I said, “Well, along with all else, there’s goodness and beauty too. I guess that’s the mercy of the world.” Mat said, “The mercy of the world is you don’t know what’s going to happen.” And then after a pause, speaking on in the same dry, level voice as before, he told me why he had been up walking about so late. He had had a dream. In the dream he had seen Virgil as he had been when he was about five years old: a pretty little boy who hadn’t yet thought of anything he would rather do than follow Mat around at work. He looked as real, as much himself, as if the dream were not a dream. But in the dream Mat knew everything that was to come. He told me this in a voice as steady and even as if it were only another day’s news, and then he said, “All I could do was hug him and cry.” And then I could no longer sit in that tall chair. I had to come down. I came down and went over and sat beside Mat. If he had cried, I would have. We both could have, but we didn’t. We sat together for a long time and said not a word. After a while, though the grief did not go away from us, it grew quiet. What had seemed a storm wailing through the entire darkness seemed to come in at last and lie down. Mat got up then and went to the door. “Well. Thanks,” he said, not looking at me even then, and went away.”
― Wendell Berry, Jayber Crow