My saddest day up to this point in life is
the day my dad died. I’ll never recover.
People have told me to hang on, that the
pain eases with time. Here, almost a year
from that day, the sorrow is deeper, trickier.
I sense a lot of people spin flowery webs
out of their asses trying to gain a purchase
on death. It’s okay, I get it, I do that too.
My second saddest is when my wife and our
youngest daughter and I sat on the cold vet’s
floor while our beloved Jack stretched out
his rickety Beagle legs as the pentobarbital
seized his heart and he died. No recovery from
that one either, pal. Another open wound.
When I was a boy, I learned from Star Trek
that space is the final frontier. But now as
a man I don’t believe that any longer. Death is.
What’s next after the chests of our fathers
and our dogs and our own for that matter have
risen and fallen for the final time? People say
heaven, and I still believe but I’m no longer
longing for golden streets in a jeweled city.
My hope rests in a place where old dogs and
dads run like pups and boys, a land deep-meadowed
(as Arthur answered slowly from the barge)
where I will heal me of these grievous wounds.