The Sweet Hereafter

The Sweet Hereafter
While I was making supper for my mother yesterday afternoon, my thoughts returned to the short poem I had written early that morning — now a page and what feels like a lifetime ago. As if I were a ghost, I saw myself standing at the stove and said, How fitting if his pale life were to end here, after such a fine farewell. Then I took myself by the hand, but the fool would not follow me home. He peeled an onion instead, and chopped three ripe red tomatoes. What good is it, I said, if he does not know? And so I tugged again, this time a little harder. Resolutely with his free hand, he crushed dry purple basil. I know not how it happened, but I took a joyous breath. My spirit ached and my nostrils flared. May the sweet hereafter be such a pain as this. *September 21, 2006* Previous Entry Next Entry Return to Songs and Letters About the Author	Main Page Author’s Note Background Notebook A Listening Thing Among the Living No Time to Cut My Hair One Hand Clapping Songs and Letters Collected Poems Early Short Stories Armenian Translations Interviews News and Reviews Highly Recommended Let’s Eat Favorite Books & Authors Useless Information Conversation E-mail & Parting Thoughts Flippantly Answered Questions
Top of Page