Occasionally I get Fig Newtons.
Not too often because they take
me back to what is only a memory
of when the dead in my life were
alive, when I was a boy,
when Mrs. Heinz – who didn’t
have two dimes to rub together –
would have a box when Dad
and Mom would make a call,
park the car on this side of the wooden
bridge that crossed the stream
to get to her house and life.
I should relish such memories,
the near resurrection of memory,
the dead nearly alive. I have
to say the longing for the dead
to rise again fills me with deep
sorrow, that melancholy joy
for what has been not to be again
and say sometimes when I take
a bite in a voice barely audible to me,
“This is the day the Lord has made.
Rejoice.” And can barely swallow.
-Byron Hoot
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