At twelve, he discovered he could draw. Not the clumsy sketches of most children, but real drawings — birds in flight, his mother’s hands folded in her lap, the old oak tree in our backyard with every leaf distinct. His art teacher said he had the eye . Jasper just said he liked putting things down before they disappeared .
The book argues that death is merely a change of frequency, not an end. on the death of my son jasper swain pdf