With all the loss around, it's terribly easy to lose sight of other special things.
The ridges from water damage on my hundred-year-old living room floor.
Stubble on the face of a friend, quietly happy with his world.
A surprise Frosty delivery accompanied by laughter and poignant words.
My dad's favorite hymn blaring, energized by the first best banjo player (who died today).
Evening call from an old lover and friend, someone else who can cry for the death of my favorite poet (who died today).
I'll fly away, Oh Glory
I'll fly away; (in the morning)
When I die, Hallelujah, by and by,
I'll fly away (I'll fly away).
What to make of death, friends? I write and write, dream and wake up sweaty and confused, and only the dirt and tiny buds on a gardenia make sense.
