Aron Rothstein

Death of a Classmate

The news comes by e-mail, and I stare at it for a while. Hadn't seen him in forty years, since high school. He was already a memory. Yet today, my world is smaller.

the forest
becoming trees
autumn fog

The loss — of time, of expectations, of all the meaning he brought to the life he was. I wonder at the point of all that effort. I recall my grandmother. Crippled by arthritis and popping the aspirins that eventually killed her, she answered my mother's question about what kept her going: "I still like to see the sunrise."

cool splashes . . .
solace in the ritual
of morning chores