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.

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?

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.

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.

WORD CHOICE

Away with "Golden Ager"
and "Senior Citizen."
I prefer to describe
myself as "seasoned."
The word carries with it not merely
an allusion to the many winters
and summers one has weathered
but also a whiff of spice, a tangy
taste that defies blandness.
"Seasoned" implies wisdom, a view
of life tested by time and circumstance.
Hearing it spoken, one hears an echo
of "reasoned," a word that suggests
calm appraisal of any situation.
There's even a hint of craftiness.
Someone seasoned is the very opposite
of gullible, won't fall for the clever sales
pitch, can spot a phony in a flash,
is increasingly unwilling to abide fools.

Don't call me "up in years,"
"over the hill," "put out to pasture."

Call me seasoned.

JESUS STOPS BY FOR A VISIT

Oh, it's . . . it's You.
Well . . . come in, come in. Yes.
I wasn't expecting . . .
That is . . . I thought you were . . . dead.
But . . . But . . . No! Not dead, not really.
Risen! Yes. Of course . . .
Resurrected. But still . . .

Yes, please sit down. Sit. Sit.
Here's the best chair in the place.
Not much of a place, I know.
Anyhow. Coffee? Tea? A glass of water?
Something stronger?
Hey, I guess you could turn
the water into whatever . . .
Sorry. Just a little joke. Heh. Heh.
You've probably heard it a thousand . . .
Yes, I suppose it would get old, wouldn't it?

Sorry if I seem a little nervous.
I really had no idea you made house . . .
Of course I'm happy you've come.
Glad. Pleased. Honored.
It's just that I never imagined . . .
And I must admit I'm curious.
I mean I'm sure you have a reason . . .
No? Just a chance to say hello?
See how things are going?
Well, things are . . . fine.
Really. I'm doing well.
Most of the time. ‘course we all
have our ups and downs, don't we?
But no complaints. A few aches
and pains. Not getting any younger
you know. Well, I'm not anyway.

What? You've got to be going?
So soon? But you just got . . .
And . . . And I have questions, lots of . . .
Yes. Yes. I understand.
Maybe . . . Maybe next time?

MEMORIAL REQUEST

Let us talk of those no longer with us.
Let us honor their lives with our words.
Let us speak mostly of the good in them.
Let us not, however, pretend they were not flawed.

Let us re call them, summon them again from
the times they spent touching our lives
with theirs, helping us to cry or laugh, teaching
us, often unaware that they were teachers.

Let us re member them, rejoin them
to our company, with stories of what they
said and did, with special attention given
to how they said it, how they did it.

Let us re instate them, claim for them
their rightful place in our past, but also
in our present. We are what they helped
shape us into. They live on in us.