That’s Life

Driving home 
from the doctor’s — 
an endocrinologist — 
with better news 
about the hyperthis 
and the hyperthat 
than I feared I would get 
facing old-man troubles. 
I replay welcome words. 

“I’ll change this script 
then we’ll wait and see 
what the new tests tell us. 
Nothing to worry about for now.” 

As I approach home, 
I decide to go for a ride 
to shop for some groceries. 
Usually, I don’t like driving 
but the day and the road 
seem to desire my company 
and arouse my wanderlust. 
Today is not the day 
for the same old, same old. 
Reality’s routine grows tiresome 
as you spend more and more time 
with memories and less with dreams. 

Driving down 
Grand Boulevard 
off Deer Park Avenue, 
Sinatra sings “That’s Life.” 

I am in a mood. 
A good mood. 
Maybe a great one. 

Blue sky, warm sun, 
curvaceous clouds — 
a wonderful October day, 
far better than we deserve, 
far nicer than it should be 
for Fall. But the seasons 
are not what they once were. 
I guess nothing is. 

Warm sunlight caresses me 
gently like a luminous lover 
rousing beside me, beaming. 
The air, not to be outdone, 
gently fondles the hairs 
on my head, face, and arms — 
intimate as only a breeze 
can be, if it chooses to be. 
A truly glorious day. 

As I near Commack Road, 
muscle memory makes me 
want to turn right, toward 
my Uncle Primo’s house. 

Then, a pleasant thought: 
It would be so great 
to visit Uncle Primo today. 

Waiting at the next red light, 
the world-that-was darkens, 
and the storm breaks. 
My insides tighten 
and my soul aches 
as my happy mood 
is eclipsed by gloom. 

Time for that — a visit — 
is over and done. 
My Uncle Primo’s gone. 
Just a couple of months 
ago, he passed on. 

No more days remain 
for gray-haired uncle 
and greybeard nephew 
to sit in the backyard 
with a bottle of red wine — 
maybe a Malbec or Merlot — 
or at the kitchen table 
with cups of expresso. 
Not anymore, no. 
Not ever again. 

“Never…never…never,”  
echoes a dejected voice. 

The abyss has found me 
and the world tilts, gravity 
dragging me off the edge. Dizzy, 
my hands desperately cling 
onto the wheel like it was a ledge. 
My arthritic thumbs sting 
so much I could cry. 
But I refuse to tear up. 
I do not care to die 
driving near-blind 
by Death’s shadow 
poking my eyes 
as its despairing lies 
agonize my ears. 

I pull into a parking spot 
as I near Stop & Shop. 
I grab hold of my lifelines, 
a pen and sheet of paper, 
to write down my thoughts 
and face my feelings — 
but only at arm’s length. 

I am too much a coward 
to risk a single tear falling, 
too afraid it might turn 
into a churning waterfall 
of weeping and wailing. 

For Primo is not my only loss.  

But I cannot fall into darkness. 
I fear I have become too frail. 
I am just no longer strong 
enough to climb back out 
of any deep hole of hell. 

Yet I embrace a thought 
as if it was the man himself. 

It would be great 
to visit Uncle Primo 
and see his smile 
and feel his hug 
and hear his voice 
one last time. 

But it is way too late 

and far too early 

to see him again. 

For now.