Vignettes
330'13
Never easy to take a phone call you know is unordinary,
my father on the phone, his eldest brother had died after a
lengthy illness.
Siblings surviving childhood numbered 9 when I was younger,
5 survive today.
This brother, loved by his wife of decades, his three sons, a daughter,
his numerous grandchildren,
his Navy service photo on their social media from long ago.
Always, for survivors, the future present comes to mind, in
the morning, Easter Sunday, Resurrection Day,
mortality on display really close to home, the siblings all
destined to dust.
We have our hope, our avior, enduring death and rising
again the keys procured to the underworld.
Imperfect, fatally flawed Beings,
our perception aware of forever,
first drawing breath as the body begins to decay, the instant miracle: life-death complex.
Circular for our species, others long ago vanished now
officially totally out of the race.
Lungs begin the fight for every breath,
decidedly built to fail at some point, motion ceases.
Reason hard-wired to admit perfection in some sphere,
chimera.
Uncertainty breeds fear, the example of others meeting their
doom,
no circumventing that moment.
Trivial things provide a respite for the unconscious mind or
else quiets the concerns with noise,
the joys of activity.
One day, it will be my turn to mourn and to be mourned,
dread.
A polished radio voice, our uncle lived near the Tennessee
River, not far from Shiloh NMP,
had once lived near
the Arkansas River in central Arkansas, and other places.
He will be buried in a place of honor in Mississippi, the
home state of his father,
loved and missed, awaiting the appointed Resurrection Day
gathering of saints.
He will rest with the hope that sustained his idle-mind
moments,
pondering this present.
BB
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