THE MEANING OF LIFE

summer-solstice

 

The earthy gravity of Seamus Heaney’s poems

and the sweet taste of John Powers whiskey

mixed with a few foot-surgery Percocets

 

could explain the face droop I feel, the heavy

shallow breaths, but on top of the dumb-slow

hours of pain and recovery, it was the blind

 

pick-up (no caller ID) and the pace and tone

of my niece’s voice that foretold the tale

ahead of the words: her father, the Little

 

Hungarian, had left to find my sister, his

Bull-headed Irish lover (gone now for not

quite a year) and tend the roses of their garden

 

in paradise. And however you want to spin it,

your metaphor about what happens after

we die, I can testify to their story here,

 

a love story for over half a century, one glass

half-empty, one glass half-full, they were

a team who’d thrown in together for better

 

or worse. It was a hell of a ride. True opposites.

They never gave up on each other. Call it

love, commitment, ignorance, or fear.

 

Call it what you want. Year after year

they kept trying to keep a full-glass together.

The meaning of life is in the living.

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