An Honest Man
It takes a certain sadness to love your own responses to things. Some call this poetry, but I’m not certain about that. Just the other day I saw a bay of coots on Flathead Lake slowly swallowed by snow falling quiet as a pulse. The scene was so pure I thought I might weep. But there were others at the window beside me, others who might not know what to do with a man’s tears. I’ve found most don’t. Oh voices say they want tender men but you let tears start falling silent as snow and sphincters in the room tighten like fists. If you should doubt this, ask an honest man.
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As mother to four sons, this makes me sad.
I’ll tell you a lovely small secret, John. As you get older, those tears will be far more welcome. I’m sorry they’re not now, friend, because they’re life-giving . . . for you and for others. At 73, my husband tears up frequently and I actually think there are some younger men friends who are the teensiest bit envious. Perhaps I’m projecting, but I don’t think so.
This poem brought you to my mind. You are an honest man.
I hope things are going well for you, all things considered.
My younger sister Nancy’s husband, only 65 years old, has Alzheimers. He is the best thing that ever happened in her and she is slowly losing him. I started me thinking about your brother. Scientists are finding a link to a neurotoxin in neurodegenerative diseases like ALS and Alzheimers.
BTW, did the bitch ever pay you?
SLJF. Sorry, but F is for F.
So true, so sad
Roslyn from iphone
Goodness, if we’re ever in the same room again, know that you can cry near me. You would be in good company, as I am a weepy mess. Krill oil helps a good bit, thank heavens. 🙂