We drove like hell for Monticello to the grave of Robert Hughes and at twelve tolls of the bell we felt the earth begin to move. Trees crashed all around us amid the crumblings of the tombs, we were sure we’d met our doom by resurrection’s cold monsoon. But then a shadow still and strong cast a silence upon the gloom, laying sheets of morning dew, quenching fires as it grew. And it rose still steadily till it blanketed the moon, and then it rode upon the winds to fill the starry night’s ballroom.
Robert Hughes. Robert Earl Hughes.
Peaceful and translucent, it wasn’t long till it consumed everything that we imagined and every last thing that we knew. The final act of the specter before it exploded out of view was the voice of a sonic boom calling out "I forgive you." The words faded in a red dawn somehow beautiful and new. We had seen the rising of the dead and we felt risen, too. For if a spirit’s always bigger than the form that it assumes, then there is no bigger spirit than the ghost of Robert Hughes.