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Thursday, April 19, 2012


I’m nearly sixty-eight,
and he wants an event?
One event?
I know, I know,
what would our friend Walt do?
He’d write and write and write,
and they’d all be great,
and they’d all be interesting,
and we’d all read them
and we’d all have ink envy…again.

I mean, I have lots of stories, so
that’s no problem, and
it’s too late now to worry about
too much exposure.
I could write about going through
A windshield…twice.
Not the same windshield, but still.
I could go on about the day my
mother died, or about when I met
her on the night I died, nine years later,
the day she sent me back.
I could ruminate on the choice to
move to a foreign country,
when we settled in California.
Then there’s the first real job that became
the only job, a career you’d say.
If homage was the goal,
it would have to be the creative writing class
in the desert.

Ultimately, there is no choice, not really.
Well, maybe a choice - between weddings -
the big, emotional first one at halftime of
the Packer game, in front of family,
in the family home, with Alice the Springer mix
as flower girl, or
the second one, fifteen years later, making her
a June Bride at last.
I think it has to be number two.
After all, we knew what we were getting,
after fourteen wonderful years of marriage.
(no, my math’s ok, and that’s a pretty good percentage)

Our wedding redux was due to
A very orthodox Orthodox priest,
who refused to acknowledge
our matrimony as legitimate, leaving us
in not good standing in the church.
Our monthly membership dues, however,
were always in good stead, all checks cashed.
So be it.
I won’t bore you with the details,
nor about the counseling sessions,
(after fifteen years!),
or about how he said we’d have a child
even though I was fixed, and then we did,
in an odd manner.
I’ll save that for another prompt.

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