All My Friends

What does one do, think, feel, say, dream, hope, want after one's father has died? The sympathy and love of my friends is hemming me in on every side. Even a friend that I thought lost to me proved able to be there, to offer what he could when I needed it most.

People, I have this one thing to tell you. The cliches are all true. Life is too short. It [whatever grudge you're nursing] isn't worth it. You shouldn't ever go to bed angry. Love is the answer.

In all of my writing workshops I'm always counseled to avoid, at all costs, anything that smacks of an overtly redemptive moment in my poems. Redemption is not interesting enough, not when it's obvious, I suppose. This suddenly strikes me as being ridiculous. As if nothing is valid unless cloaked in irony. What has irony done for me, lately?

But my friends... oh, my friends. Well, winter, spring, summer, or fall... you know the rest.