To The Summer Cookouts

I’m just gonna open this bottle and set out a couple of glasses. I’m gonna set out some nachos and we are going to forget we care about our health.

This time, I promise not to complain about John Updike and how much I cannot stand the suburban angst that seems so popular. I will put aside my comments about music from the 70’s by white people that literally no one can dance to.  It won’t even be hard. I have a big mouth and I have a lot of opinions, but even I realize now is not the time.

In a poetry class, I remember Jack Myers telling us the story of his brother-in-law sitting next to him by the pool at a backyard cookout. They were reclining in lounge chairs and he had on mirror sunglasses and as they talked, this guy would punctuate his comments with phrases like, “But what are ya gonna do? Huh? What are ya gonna do?” Jack watched the clouds move across the lenses of his glasses. 

I never knew if it was defeat or relief.

Or both.

Now, we will never know. I have always thought any age is too young to die when the person who dies is someone you love. 8 days, 8 years, 80 years.

I have no space for your absence.

Drink up, my friend. The grading and the laundry and stories-not-yet-written can wait.

Today is unseasonably warm. 

The distance we have to bridge has never been smaller.