There are fairly positive placards to be discovered–usually somewhere behind closed eyes–when Death (not waltzes in, there was no waltzing in my dad’s case) knocks down continents to claim, abscond-with, pose in a peasant blouse splotched in redwood forest mulch and maidenhead ferns as Mother Nature. The placards read:
NO MORE PAIN P.S./A GOOD THING
IS AT PEACE/OR SOMETHING LIKE IT OMG (scrawled in a hard, lava-red script bleeding through even the darkest dream)
WHATSA MATTER WITH U: LIVE LIVE LIVE
EFFING HELL EFFING JUST SAY THE BIG EFFING GOODBYE U BIG GRIEVING GOOF
or (my favorite):
All IS well. Emailed memories and snippets of our dad from friends of his we haven’t seen since we were kids fly in–breath-swiping missives. Much good is suddenly clarified about one half of the complicated unit that raised my sisters and me.
And so I let my breath out for the first time since somewhere deep in late July.
The sound resembles a mildly breaking wave (w/distant seagull call).
Yours in sweeter dreams and a violin-playing Death (O Holbein–so crafty–for me it would be Beethoven’s 3rd, first movement–et tu?),