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Wednesday, February 27, 2013

MARIA AND FORREST

When I got there I saw
she was devastated. She had
come home and found him lying
unconscious in the bath tub,
half immersed in blood and
water. "I'm Catholic," she said.
"I believe it is a mortal sin,
even if he doesn't. Please go see
him. He's in St. Mark's. Tell him
he must not try again."

I went. I had misgivings.
What right had I to tell
a man whose very breath
rasped his chest what he should
or shouldn't do? But her
tears had pulled from me
the promise. I went.

The room was dim,
the late afternoon sun trying
feebly to enter. He looked
at me once, then turned his
gaze away. His face was pasty pale.

"I know why you've come,"
he said. "She sent you."
"Yes," I said. A long
silence then. I broke it.
"It's your life," I told him.
"But will you promise me,
for her sake, what I know
I have no right to ask?"
He gave the merest nod.

I thanked him.
I left.

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

GUNS

"The only thing that stops a bad guy
with a gun is a good guy with a gun."
-- Wayne LaPierre, NRA executive vice president

Let's divide the human race
Let's call some good guys
Let's call the rest bad guys
Let's give them all guns
Let's line them up for a shootout
It's that simple

Isn't it?

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

MEETING NAN

Last night I met Nan.
I remembered her from when I was
eight and she would have been --
let's say -- fifteen. She was
our neighbor's niece, had come
to visit from the big city. She did
not speak to me and surely
never gave me a thought then
or later. She had long legs
and arms. She was beautiful.

Sixty years later when she walked
into my dream, I recognized her
at once. We exchanged a few words.
I could tell she found me witty,
even charming. She leaned towards
me when I spoke. I made her smile.
We talked some more. She laughed
and touched my wrist with her right
hand. "Kiss me, Nan," I said.
"How did you know my name?" she said.

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

MISUNDERSTANDING

Chloe, our beagle, bit me
when I was ten. I had placed
her food in her dish, then
reached out to pet her.
She growled. I saw what was
coming, turned to get away.
She slashed my hand, deep.

My father, dressing the wound,
did not blame the dog, did
not realize how stunned
I was that my good intentions
had been misunderstood.

It was a lesson that has served
me well on many occasions.