HARMONEERING 2——The Antlers, "Hospice" • Life can be like an old man, all craggy, concrete faced, and broadly chested, even with his unyielding back issues that leave him hunched over when he sits every once in a while, one arm often resting on his knee seeming as if he has found real intrigue in what his guest has said, though in reality he's alleviating the stress forced upon his back, who fought in world wars and commands respect but who crashes into his stone brick mail box and calls the police after hiding his car in his garage and covering it up even though he's already had two DUIs and this should potentially seal the deal for his driving ability, and as police ask to see his car upon arrival, he asks how that's relevant, because clearly some drunk kids have hot-rod'ed their vehicle in to his mailbox and he is the victim here, though they insist as one of them proceeds to radio in a possible search warrant. Life can also be like a young girl, pale as a ghost wrapped in a white linen window skirt on a cold winter's day, the snow piling up from up drift come all the way from Buffalo, even as strange it may be this early in the season, patiently waiting as best she knows how in her small inexperienced world through the torture of her phantom limb simultaneously insisting it's not there and chiming as if a high power firework had been lit and detonated within the calcium of her ill fated and weakening bones, the blood thickening and luke warm, hope and perspective long since vanished into the strong-willed and pitch black night like a noble vestige the lords of old would reckon back to with fond revery. Life can even be like a boy of five tightening his grip on the glimmering balloon in the dead summer scorch, radiating in the joy that such a magnificent marvel of magic will bring if one is still innocent enough to consider how religious a floating rubber oval filled with simulated breathe tied to a string can be, only to be crushed by the weight of the panic that sets in when that item of worship is lost with the slip of the fingers, it to float beyond our wildest imaginations, we gather, only to deflate above a tropical wünderland where the tribals are ten feet tall, terror eyed and carry long spears decorated between battles with the heads of their enemies, and the weeping for renewal is endless and forever traumatic, until we forget what it means to feel and trust in our later days after being thrown so thoroughly in the mud of desperation and despair. Life can be like that. Hospice can be that too. But the reward of endurance through the misery of our time is only bested by the journey we're taken on, the people who are our fellow pilgrims straining toward the voyage ahead, trusting that to see each other again further through the years is guaranteed, and the pain that builds us up for the glory to be revealed in us one day when we will at last be reunited with our truest, healthiest selves, fully intact with every corresponding bone, whole and satisfied with its placement and psychical reality.
gracieabrams
2087
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