We live with two dogs, both rescues, and the ashes of three dead people.
The dogs are named Pirate and Bull’s Eye.
One of the dead people is my Uncle Artie, his urn is on the fireplace mantle; the other two belong to her family, her cousin Happy Young and Happy’s wife, Misty Day, and their containers are kept on an etagere in the parlor.
Interring has not been considered an essential activity here for several years.
At the conclusion of the second movement of Symphony No. 5, by Sergei Prokofiev, she turns to me and says “Right?”
I’ve come to the poststructuralist realization: hey, go where love takes you.
Your world your way. Throw on a pot of coffee, play basketball using a football two of them, or think about having Megan Thee Stallion host the annual youth fishing derby (hopefully that won’t be cancelled, too).
Me, I like theatrics. Let’s have more day of show mat work in the center of the ring, more internal combustion fustian, more multipoint inspections.
It’s simple: just 1) don’t get in no trouble, 2) take a sweater, and 3) make good choices.
© 2020 Randy Stark