Good Enough

My dear friend and former college professor is dying at home in his bed while the trees are turning red, yellow and orange. First it was academia and a much-younger wife. Then yardwork and sailing. Now shivers inside a cheap sleeping bag that will likely be used to line his coffin. I think I could get used to the darkness more than not being able to breathe. Or suppose after death God gives us each a heavenly snorkel, or cuts slits in our individual spirits so we can inhale the divine. Hallelujah. All I know is that we used to get drunk together and watch the skirts of female tennis players get shoved around by the wind because I'm pretty sure the wind is male. Or sometimes we'd talk politics---but very rarely. I buried my old dog in his back yard, and he painted her a nice stone, name and all. That is our story, and I'm pretty sure it is good enough.

harvest-moon ---

the broom's bristles

stiff and short