Remembering in prayer a tragedy that happened 58 years ago, in a place I've never been to. The sheer scale of the tragedy still resonates. May God continue to bless those who died and those who still mourn them. May their memory be an eternal blessing. ABERFAN In the quiet embrace of a morning, a mountain loomed, heavy with secrets, its heart a restless whisper of coal. The village, nestled in the valley, woke to the promise of a day, children's laughter mingling with the dawn, unaware of the shadow looming, the weight of earth and sorrow. Then came the roar, a thunderous cascade, a tide of blackened despair, the ground trembled, and innocence was swallowed, as the coal tip, like a vengeful ghost, descended upon dreams and laughter, a monstrous wave of loss. Walls crumbled, cries echoed, the air thick with dust and disbelief. Mothers, fathers, hands grasping, searching through the remnants of joy, voices rising in a desperate chorus, a symphony of heartache, each note a name, a story, each silence a chasm of grief. Time stood still, as the earth mourned its children, the village, cloaked in sorrow, bound together by unspeakable pain, the weight of memory heavy, each face a testament to love, each tear a river of remembrance. And in the years that followed, as the seasons turned, the flowers bloomed with resilience, but the scars remained, etched in the hearts of those who survived, a reminder of fragility, of the day the mountain wept, and the world held its breath. Aberfan, a name carved in history, the echoes of laughter now a haunting, a tale of loss and of love, a plea to remember, to honour the lives intertwined, to hold tight to hope, even in the shadow of despair. Fr Grant Ciccone (c) 2024