comes with age
It didn't need to be something to get through. But then there was a message left on my voicemail: "I've been going through my things, throwing stuff out, and I found this letter from 68 Jackson street. Do you remember writing this poem?" Followed by a clearing of the throat and an impassioned recitation. Then there was a phone call at nine-thirty on Saturday morning. "Batshoo Magooo! I'm up in Maine, here with Moses. I can't keep him any longer so we're going to release him to the wild. Do you want to say goodbye?" He held the phone up to our partially decomposed pet tumbleweed, so I could coo a goodbye across the wires. The following day, this e-mail: "My parents and I gave Moses a Dixie-land parade down the street to the river, then we tossed him in and I sang a fitting hymn: Give Joy or Grief Give Ease or Pain/ Take life or Tumbleweeds away / But let me find them all again / In that Eternal Day. It was a guezfully good time!" A f