Slant

It amazes me that this body, this thing that is still supposed to be me after over half a century, breathes, eats, shits, continues to dream, function, continues not to play— but lives!—

I've lost interest in a lot of things— Sports, religion, money, politics— Everything but music, basically The whole combined flea circus and boat show. Especially this new technology That keeps people connected all the time, Which is problematic for loners, but which Most people love.

She gives his sweaters to Goodwill and knows that he'd approve; she eats popcorn in bed, and knows that he wouldn't. When she sleeps instead of getting up to run, he'd say it shows her sloth; but he'd be pleased that she still goes to church (hymns heal the soul, he'd always said), and he'd assure her that God isn't dead, as this ungodly grief makes her suppose.

There was a time when I, despite it all, though knowing well the vanity of grief, mourned inconsolably for one dear friend, my other self, now lost beyond recall; when I could find no confort or relief and thought the fractured world would never mend my whole life long, that pain would only end when I succumbed, a frail autumnal leaf.