Self, Other, The Lack of Reason, & The Paradox
of Pleasure
Can this just be the interlude?
Can this just be who cares?
Can this please not be heart-
break?
Can this be the story
of how my grandmother came
to be with my grandfather? For
fifty-something years, yes? The
ick of hosting an anniversary party
for them at my childhood home;
me, perhaps a high school senior.
Was it their 45th? In my heart,
and to this day, that was and is
a very big deal. I might slump
a bit as I type this, but I hold
them up as heroes in that
regard.
The template. And
the wonder of the why and
especially the how of the how.
I did not see this through my
teenaged eyes, but from this
much older pair. I see with
verity. What I,
myself, have sought,
and that which I’ll never
truly have.
But haven’t I
lived? And thusly, such a life
that both of these heroes would,
I know, be in awe, so proud
(well, I am their grandson), if
not even a bit envious.... I left
home soon after for college.
Papaw passed on, and then
what?
She lived on for
another decade plus. Even
saw another man (Papaw’s
closest friend, then a widower
due to her--Granny Louise's--
closest friend's passing). But
the pain, the declination,
was so furious that I could
never look again through those
loving eyes. To find equanimity
in the inevitable heartbreak
of a life spent living. I try to
continue to want this. I seem
unable to even suppress such
an aspiration. Even now, with
the stupid grin of such an age,
knowing its impossibilities.
But,
yes. Now more than ever.
