A Bittersweet Life

He admit­ted to me that in his car, when he’s dri­ving alone, there’s a com­pul­sion to put togeth­er the details of his father as he writes in his mind the speech for the even­tu­al day that a eulo­gy will need to be deliv­ered. The only oth­er per­son he’s admit­ted this to is his girl­friend, who’s labeled the prac­tice as rather dis­turb­ing. Morbid, I’ll agree, as his father is far from pass­ing, but not as strange as she makes it out to be. In return, I admit to him that I do the same thing when I piece togeth­er sto­ries of his life for the speech I’ll be deliv­er­ing as best man at his wed­ding, an event just as grave, and every bit as trag­ic.

He humor­ous­ly finds relief in this.


  1. I find this very poet­ic, refresh­ing, even, and tran­quil. just the words, per­haps, stripped of their mean­ings. or maybe it’s the skin.

    nice blog; great pho­tos.

  2. I agree. I love every­thing about this web­site.

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