Love and Death

I read this morning of a new gun that shoots behind rocks. Just the thing, it’s reported, to fight that pesky enemy in Afghanistan. A little while, I think, and they’ll be using it to shoot back.

Now that my hair’s gone white, and when I contemplate dying I know what I’m thinking about, people have begun selling me life insurance. I have young children, for an old man, and it’s thought I’ll want to be sure they’re safe and happy when I’m suddenly dead.

I remember being a boy and outraged I was hungry and cold, while the other snot-nosed brats were fat and chuckling. I swore I’d promote a level playing field as long as I breathe. My own boys are stunning. Old songs say a woman completes a man, but it isn’t so. His children do. My heart aches and swells with the looks from their eyes. But I didn’t make them. I can’t save them. What a wonderful thing they are, standing on their own in the world. I’ll not break my oath.

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