A woman came to see me today,
She sat across the desk and handed me
A deed she wanted me to look over.

I didn't recognize the name on the deed at first,
Then slowly it began to dawn on me who she was
I looked up and saw her expectant eyes and a curl at the edge of her lips

God knows what she saw in my face, but she said,
"Hello, Jimmy, it's been a long time".
And it had, probably 30 years ago at my mother's funeral.

Here was my mother's friend, 81 now, old enough to call a
65-year-old man Jimmy and touch the place inside him
Where his mother's memory lives.

But it was more than a visit between old friends.
A friend of mine now gone called such things divine appointments

Because, you see, my mother was in that room as we talked
About our families and the days back when our world was young,
Full of love, and death had never touched me.

When she left I cried…

It's hours later and mom's still here beside me as I write.
I feel her as I have all the terrible times when she protected me,
Mostly from myself, and the blessed times like when I found
My way to a new home and love.

I'll see mom one day where she is waiting
I have missed her so very much,
But today I discovered she never left.

Look around and trust your heart, you'll see what I mean

He was born the year Babe hit 61,
Baptized by the Great Depression,
And confirmed in the South Pacific;
They jokingly called him the Million Dollar Baby.
No one knows why
Because he was one of millions who did what
Was right in a time when if they hadn't
Our world could have gone wrong.

And they expected not even a pat on the back for doing it.
They were beautiful.
He was beautiful, my dad.

He carried me even when I was old enough to walk
No complaints, no expectations beyond that I would
Do the same for mine.

I tried, but didn't do as well as he had done for me.

Now the Million Dollar Baby sits in a geri chair,
Cared for lovingly by his youngest girl.
Fading like his memory of who he was and what he did

But I will never forget.

Heaven will be lucky to get him,
I was luckier to have been his son.

My best friend says either God invented us
Or we invented God, nothing else makes sense to her:

I guess I don't know what makes sense to me either, but
when  I feel comfort sending prayers into the Universe
or I survive what should have crushed me, or
or I see my children's faces in the album of my mind, or
especially In the moments after loving my wife and
         we lie quiet in the night

I feel what we must call God and I know,
I just know,
That people aren't smart enough to have invented Love.

His stars were crossed at birth by the ones
Who conceived him.
She who used the act to hold the boy,
He who performed for his own pleasure;
Neither with a care for the son who was a consequence.
Both indifferent until they finally broke
And the son became a pawn in a hateful game between them.
Winner take all, and he was all there was

When he learned this he used it against them
So he  could get what he wanted from one or the other.
And he had never been taught to want healthy things.

They did not care, they each tried to buy him away from the other.
He raised the price each time it was paid
And they paid it yet again to punish the other with his fleeting loyalty.

He thought others would pay when he grew older and went into the world.
Because he knew nothing else; not love or kindness
or even reasonable restraint.
There was just the pretense of human feeling,
Enough to get his way.

He called me from jail today
A girl finally told him no.
She'll never do that again, nor will their unborn child.

At least this game stops here.

Mainay kal apnay aapko dekha tha apni ammi ankhon may
Yeh aina mujhay boorha nahi batata
(The above language is a mixture of Urdu and Hindi.)

English Translation

I saw myself in my mother's eyes yesterday
And those mirrors don't say that i'm old

I am here like I promised I would be. I have been sitting here for awhile now , remembering you. I wish so badly to be able to see you... To hear you.... Something.... Anything.

From the back yard it all appears normal and as though life is unchanged. It is anything but normal.

The roses.... They are still here. Untouched by time other than some weathering of the stems. How I hate those roses and what they represent.
I'll not touch them. But I will recall their meaning that day.

I want you to know I am so very sorry I was unable to be here for you that fateful day. I would do anything to change that. I am here now and I am not leaving. I will stay here for you, knowing there is nothing I can do to bring you back.

It's 6. You would be home. It's already happening... And no one can stop the horror of your last minutes. It hurts so bad knowing what you had to endure. Remembering the aftermath.

So much left unsaid, undone.... So much life you had yet to live snatched away in a cowardly display of power, control, and pure venom.

It must be nearing that time. I am beginning to feel you. I am beginning to get chills up my spine. The breeze has picked up some. A sparrow went hopping around in your roses.

I should be sitting out here with you. Not sitting out here remembering you. Fires, chatting, watching the kids play as they were growing up...so many memories flooding back all at once. So heart wrenching to know they will never be more than memories ever again.

You should be popping out of the back door and sarcastically asking me, "Why aren't you coming in Chrissy? Too lazy to take your shoes off or what ? " Then would be that laugh.... I loved that that laugh. No more picking back and forth. No more joking around. No more funny sarcasm. No more anything. It's all no more.

I pray where ever you are now that you are happy. That you can still hear and see us all. That you know how deeply we miss you and love you. That you know you will never be forgotten. And that you know I am here today.
I love you so much Deb.

My friend who I admire believes the future
is controlled by our discipline and preparedness
and the effort we put into securing what we want from life.

But she is young, probably beautiful,
and therefore handicapped by the privilege given
to the young who see many doors to what the future holds.

Time will cure that, or perhaps not, but probably so,
in any event, I hope her perception works for her,
I have seen too much to believe it.

I have walked the stairs of life
where the future is not behind
limitless doors, but rather windows which get smaller
the further up you go, and there are a fewer of them.

So, for my dear friend, I hope the future
remains limitless and becomes glorious
I felt that way long ago,
but capricious fate  and destiny make me believe
the end was written before the story was published.