Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967), Rainy Night, 1918; Watercolor and black chalk heightened with white (gouache) on wove paper, 18 x 12 inches; The Phillips Collection
Charles Burchfield, Journals, August 7, 1933
Thursday, Aug 7, 2014
On the morning of June 23 at 7:30 mother died, just nine days after Frances. Evening of fading hope had merged into a night of black despair. At four o’clock, as I sat holding her hand and wrist in which the pulse was steadily growing weaker, all the robins seemed to go mad with singing at the same moment; a little later a red-bird came and sang from a wire out front clear and strong—
It is Sunday evening. We are standing in the cemetery by the newly disturbed ground. Some friend has arranged the flowers on both graves, a thought that is like the pressure of a hand. The mournful churchbells that used in childhood to frighten me, have died away into silence, and a soft gentle rain began to fall. They are gone; and even now, the vain regrets out-weigh the pleasant memories.
Charles Burchfield, August 7, 1933