Thanksgiving Morning Thoughts About Death
I often wonder
When I will die.
It has to do with objects
And my kinship with them.
One time my wife lost her blanket.
She was swaddled in it
As an infant.
When we left the hotel room,
I told her we had it with us.
I thought we did.
But I was in a hurry.
I can’t think about that blanket
Lost in the wilderness
And my wife’s incandescent, round tears
Without it being
A watershed moment of remorse.
I think about the time I yelled at her
When she wore an efflorescent blouse
Pink, with roses and butterflies.
She never wore it again.
No balm in Gilead, no sinner’s cure
Including her reassurance that a baby puked on it
Has made me remember it without contrition.
There are so many places I will not go
And people I will not see.
Charles Bronson once said
Responsibility is a big rock that weighs a ton
And it bends you until it finally buries you.
I have no idea if he is right.
He yelled that at some children on a Hollywood set.
But I don’t think
He wanted to go back
To that set
After all his caterwauling.
I’m not crazy.
(I know that every crazy person says that).
But just maybe
When there is nothing left to swaddle you
And no place to go for asylum
Whether your heart stirs or not.
Charles Bronson died at 81.
Years after he had stopped
Visiting familiar places.
His hip replaced by a rock
Of scrap metal.
©2023 Alexander Poster All rights reserved.
Alexander Poster is a good, grey bureaucrat who works as a historian for a labyrinthine federal agency. He lives less than one mile from the U.S. Capitol and survived a nasty case of COVID-19, none of which inspired his writing one bit. He is a fan of Cormac McCarthy, depressing music from the 80s and 90s, and, surprisingly, marine mammals. He loves his wife, even though she has expressed concern for him being a “cynical bastard.”