My father left this world a
few months over 25 years
ago. He was 58,
which is the same age I am
right now, the same age I
will be for 18 more days,
after which (barring
unexpected anomalies,
I should most humbly add)
I’ll celebrate my 59th birthday.
For a while now, at least since
I turned 50, this thought has
grown within me, and become
more persistent, like the
percussive, rhythmic
beat of a band marching upon
the street toward me in a
parade for which I’m an
intentional spectator, that
is both a celebration and
a memorial for some
tragic and significant event
that happened long ago,
important enough to
remember, and not
somberly, but with
a buoyant heart,
as one among my
people, with joy
and revelry, in
memoriam
and in solidarity.
Same Old Story
