I spent last weekend in my hometown. On the plane and in bed I read “The Testaments” by Margaret Atwood, which I didn’t expect to love but did. Often I was with my father, still himself and also not himself, floating in time. 

Him (imagined):

I picked up the remote control to call my wife
(My wife, my life)
And saw that it was not the phone
I found the phone
I called my wife (my life)
To ask when she’d be home
And she said soon
A daughter sits here by my side
And I am not alone
I’m right as rain
No pain
Though sometimes things are where they’re supposed to be
And sometimes not.

I might lose track of time
But I have not lost track of me
And I am not alone.

(Sometimes I sense
On the slant
That something’s missing)

Me:

You are alone and I am alone;
You’re losing you –
and I’m losing he.
In a season of losses it’s losses I see.

The acorns rest on the sidewalk,

The leaves scatter and flee,

You are alone
And I am alone

In gentle – unsought – harmony.

 

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”Listen to the song of life,” Katharine Hepburn encouraged. Thanks for reminding me, Don Winston.

 

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