Rain falls through most of the day, as if washing what's left of the year. The wrapping paper has been crumpled or stowed away for future use; the packing peanuts, tossed into the trash. Now the rooms are quiet and the extra blankets are folded away. Every year, we gather and repeat similar rituals. We fill each other's glasses and talk about everything we still want to do. One of us is turning sixty. One of us has just gotten better numbers back from the last blood draw. One of us hopes her cough abates tomorrow. One of us makes a secret wish that, if granted, would make it possible for her to die happy.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
