Friday, December 05, 2014

A Doodler and a Writer of Things Like This

It is getting darker early, and I feel the dark. Like a child, I have to turn on the lights. I hear from my eighty-three year old father in-law that he's got ten more years -- and that is it! He told me, when he was in his forties, he had all the time in the world!

   a. I told him my great-grandfather died when he was 98, but I don't remember exactly how old he was when he died.

   b. I know he was almost 100 when he died.

   c. I know he died alone, of starvation, because he wouldn't eat enough and he lived alone.

Exchanging those for more cheerful thoughts, I look out the window and I think about having fun doing something like playing minecraft with my son. Christ this is what I've become. A doodler and a writer of things like this.

But on the other hand, I've always have been writing about a stray raindrop on the window, how it has a million universes in it. Ten years or forty more is a deathless eternity, for the mind that can make the jump from fear to hope, as free as a funny bug or a twirly snowflake.

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